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BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY 


Julia and Her Romeo 


By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


ROMEO AND JULIET 

Ry WIUUIAM BLACK. 


If TO af St 

^ *wYof\K~ 






THE KING OF STORY PAPERS.' ' > 


THE - 

HEW YORK FIRESIDE COMPANION. 

.t' 

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PURE, BRIGHT ...AND . INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE 'COMPANION numbers among its contributors the 
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Published in Every Number. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION is the most interesting weekly paper 
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Among the contributors to The FiRESibB ^Companion ^re Mary E. 

■ tef/ ' ' ' , . , '' :v- I 

Bryan, Lucy Randall Comfort, Mrs. Alex.^ McVeigh Miller, Laura Jean 
Libbey, “Old Sleuth,” Charlotte M.~~Braeme,'" author 'of “Dora Thorne,’^ 
Mary C. Freston, Annabel Dwight, Clyde Raymond,' Kate A. Jordan^ 
V Louise J. brooks, Charlotte M. Stanley, etc. 


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( ( • j 

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P. O. Box 3751 .' ' ^ MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, - -- - 

' 17. to 27 Vandewater St., and 45to^o Rose St., New York. 


I 





If you appreciate a Corset that will neither break down nor roll up in wemtt 
TRY BALIi’S CORSETS, 
if you value health and comfort, 

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“If not perfectly satisfactory in every respect ,, weeks* 

trial, the money paid for them will be refunded ^ « dealer). 

Soiled or Unsoiled.’* 

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The wonderful popularity^ of Ball’s Corse^^ ^ induced rival manu* 
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faction, insisJ GS purchasing one ri.^rked, 

Pai’S^T ^eb. 22, 1881. 

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AWARDED ■* .xEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

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BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER; 


A FEW DAYS AMONG 


OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 


BY HENRY M. FIEED, D.D., 

Author of “ From the Lakes of Killamey to the Golden Horn,'*'' “ From Egy$A 
to Japan''* “ On the Desert,'*'* “ Among the Holy Hills,"*' and 
“ The Greek Islands, and Turkey after the War.'"* 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the New York Observer says: “ Doctor Field has 


written many good books of travel in foreign lands; but this little book of 
letters from our own United States, and which he has called ‘ Blood is Thicker 
THAN Water,’ will be judged by many to be the best of all.” 

The New York Independent says: “ The volume has a large part of its charm 
in the fact that it is brimming over with reminiscences of the war, pictures of 
battles succeeded by peace, with handshakings of Federals and Confederates^, 
all content now to belong to one general United States. Doctor Field has suc- 
ceeded wonderfully in investing with rare interest a somewhat prosaic and 
common tour by connecting it with the high sentiments of patriotism and na- 
tional faith. While the volunie is written for the ordinary intelligent reader, 
may we venture to remark that it is just such a book as we would like to put in 
the hands of the young; and which, though not professedly a religious book, 
we should be very glad to have shove out of the Sunday-school Ljbrary many 
more pious but really less Christian and less useful volumes.” 

The New York World says: “Doctor Field’s brilliant descriptions of the 
scenes visited, his reminiscences of the w^ar, taken from the lips of ex-Confeder- 
ate officers, the vivid contrast he draws between the horrors of battle and the 
present plenty and contentment of peace and prosperity, delight the reader 
and lead to the regret that the volume is not twice as long as it is. . . . It is 
not merely a pleasing book of travel ; it is a volume which should have a wide 
influence in further cementing the bond? which How hold, the north and sputk 
together ip. the “tr^^h and alfection of indissoluble union.” 


\ 


F^r'Sai^by all Booksellers and newsdealers. 



^ ' 

Sent by mail, postage free, on rec.^7jt of 25 cents. Address, 


GEORGE MUNRO, 

MUNRO’S PUBTJSHING HOUSE, 
to Vandewater Street, New York. 


Bulldog and Butterfly, 

AND 

JULIA AND HEE EOMEO: 

A CHRONICLE OF CASTLE BARFIELD. 

'/ 

By DAVID CHEISTIE MUERAY. 

■i 


ROMEO AND JULIET: 



A TALE OF TWO YOUNG FOOLS. 

By william BLACK. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 Vandkwatkr Street. 








DAVID CHEISTIE MURRAY’S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (ROCKET EDITION); 


PRICE*- 

58 By the Gale of the Sea . » . . . .10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” . . . . . 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature ...... 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular . 20 

691 Valentine Strange . . . . . . . 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and Deuce . . . .20 

698 A Life’s Atonement 20 

737 Aunt Rachel 10 

826 Cynic Fortune 20 


898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia and her Romeo . 10 


WILLIAM BLACK^S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 

NO, 

1 Yolande ...... 

18 Shandpn Bells ..... 

21 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 

23 A Princess of Thule .... 

39 In Silk Attire ..... 

44 Macleod of Dare .... 

49 That Beautiful Wretch .... 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 

78 Madcap Violet ..... 

81 A Daughter of Heth ..... 

124 Three Feathers ..... 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 

126 Kihneny ...... 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and Other 
Adventures ..... 

472 The Wise Women of Inverness . . 

627 White Heather ..... 

898 Romeo and Juliet. A Tale of Two Young Fools . 


PRICE;. 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

IQ 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


I. 

Castle Barfield, Heydon Hey, and Beacon Hargate 
form the three points of a triangle. Barfield is a parish of 
some pretensions; Heydon Hey is a village; Beacon Har- 
gate is no more than a hamlet. There is not much that is 
picturesque in Beacon Hargate, or its neighborhood. The 
Beacon Hill itself is as little like a hill as it well can be,, 
and acquires what prominence it has by virtue of the ex- 
treme fiatness of the surrounding country. A tuft of Scotch 
firs upon its crest is visible from a distance of twenty miles 
in some directions. A clear but sluggish stream winds 
among its sedges and water-lilies round the western side of 
the Beacon Hill, and washes the edge of a' garden which be- 
longs to the one survival of the picturesque old times Bea- 
con Hargate has to show. 

The Oak House was built for a mansion in the days of 
Queen Elizabeth, but who built it nobody knows at this 
time of day, or, excepting perhaps a hungry-minded an- 
tiquary or two, greatly cares to know. The place had been 
partly pulled down, and a good deal altered here and there. 
Stables, barns, cow-sheds, and such other outhouses as are 
needful to a farm had been tacked on to it, or built near 
it; and all these appurtenances, under the mellowing hand 
of time and weather, had grown congruous, insomuch that 
the Oak House if stripped of them would have looked as 
bare, even to the unaccustomed eye, as a bird plucked of its 
feathers. 

The house faced the stream, and turned its back upon 


6 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


the beacon with its clamp of fir-trees. It had chimneys 
enough for a village— an extraordinary wealth of chimneys 
— twisted, fluted; castellated, stacked together in conclave 
or poised singly about the gables. The front of the house 
was crossed laterally and diagonally by great beams of 
black-painted oak. The windows, which are full of dia- 
monded panes, were low-browed, deep-sunken, long, and 
shallow. The door had a porch, and this porch was cov- 
ered with creepers. In summer-time climbing roses and 
honeysuckle bloomed there. The garden ran right up to 
the house, and touched it all round. The fragrant sweet- 
william, nestling against the walls, looked as though it 
were a natural fringe. Without the faintest sense of prim- 
ness, or even of orderliness, everything had an air of being 
precisely wliere it ought to be, and conveyed somehow a 
suggestion of having been there always. The house looked 
less as if it had been built than as if it had grown, and this 
feeling was heightened by the vegetable growth about it 
and upon it — the clinging ivy, the green house-leek, the 
purple and golden moss on the roofs and walls. In the 
course of its three, hundred years the Oak House had stood 
long enough to be altogether reconciled to nature, and half 
absorbed by it. 

In 1850 — which, though it seems a long while ago, is 
well within human memory — and for many years before, 
the Oak House was tenanted by a farmer who bore the name 
of Fellowes, a sturdy and dogmatic personage, who was loud 
at the table of the market ordinary once a week, and for 
the most part silent for the rest of his life at home. The 
gray mare was the better horse. Excepting within doors at 
the Oak House, Fellowes ruled the hamlet. There were 
no resident gentry; the clergyman was an absentee; the 
tiny church was used only as a chapel-of-ease; and Fellowes 
was the wealthiest and most important personage for a mile 
or two. He was a little disposed to be noisy, and to bluster 
in his show of authority, and* therefore fell all the more 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


7 


■* 4 

easily captive to his wife, who had a gift for the tranquil 
saying of unpleasant things which was reckoned quite phe- 
nomenal in Beacon Hargate. This formidable woman was 
ruled in turn by her daughter Bertha. 

Bertha, unless looked at through the eyes of susceptible 
young manhood, would by no means be pronounced formid- 
able. She was country-bred and quite rustic; but there 
are refinements of rusticity; and for Beacon Hargate, Ber- 
tha was a lady. She would have been a lady anywhere ac- 
cording to her chances; for she was naturally sensitive to 
refining influences, and of a nature which, remembering 
how strong it was, was curiously tender. 

It was May, in the year 1850 — mid-May — and the weather 
was precisely what mid-May weather ought to be, perfumed 
and softly fresh, with opposing hints of gayety and languor 
in it. The birds were singing everywhere — a vocal storm, 
and the sheep — who can never express themselves as being 
satisfied in any weather — bleated disconsolately from the 
meadows. The clucking of fowls, the quacking of ducks, 
the very occasional grunt of some contented porker in the 
backward regions of the place, the stamp of a horse’s foot, 
and the rattle of a chain in a manger-ring — sounds quite 
unmusical in themselves — blended with the birds’ singing, 
and the thick humming of the bees, into an actual musie 
in which no note was discordant. The day was without a 
cloud, and the soft light was diffused everywhere on a skyey 
haze of whitish blue. 

In this positively delightful weather, Bertha stood with 
folded hands in the porch of the Oak House (the floor and 
the far wall of the kitchen behind her patched with gleams 
of red and brown light) like the central figure of a picture 
framed in live green. She was pretty enough to be pleas- 
ant to look at; but her charms were mainly the growth of 
tranquil good temper and sound sense. Broad brow, gray 
eyes, resolute little cliin, the mouth the best feature of the 
face, her expression thoughtful, serene, and self-possessed. 


'8 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


tlie gray eyes a trifle inclined to dream wide-awake, hair of 
no particular color, but golden in the sunlight. She stood 
leaning sideways, with one shoulder touching the trellis- 
work of the porch, and one pretty little foot crossed over 
the other, her head poised sideways and nestled into the ivy. 
She was looking far away, seeing nothing, and her folded 
hands drooped before her. A bridge, with a hand-rail on 
either side of it, crossed the stream and led from a meadow 
path to the garden. This meadow path was hidden — partly 
hy the garden wall, and partly by the growth of alder and 
pollard at the side of the stream — and a man came march- 
ing along it, unobserved. Before he reached the bridge he 
brought his footsteps to a sudden halt, and sent a glance 
toward the porch. Seeing the girl there, sunk in day- 
dreams, he slipped back into the shelter of the withies and 
took a good long look at her. Twice or thrice, though his 
feet did not quit the ground, he made a faint movement to 
go on again, and at length, after two or three minutes of in- 
decision, he walked briskly to the foot of the bridge, threw 
open the little gate at the end of it, and, suffering it to fall 
with a clanking noise behind him, tramped across the hol- 
low-resounding boards. 

At this sudden break upon the rural stillness — for, in 
■spite of the chorus of the birds and the farm-yard noises 
which mingled with it, the general effect was somehow of 
stillness and solitude — the girl looked round at the new- 
comer, drew herself up from her lounging attitude, placed 
her hands behind her and there refolded them, and stood 
waiting with an added flush of color on her cheek. The 
new-comer strode along in a kind of awkward resoluteness, 
looking straight at the girl with a glance which appeared to 
embarrass her a little, though she returned it frankly 
enough. 

“ Here I am, you see,^^ said the new-comer halting be- 
fore her. 

He was tallish, well-made, and of middle age. His ex- 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


9 


pression was a trifle dogged^ and for a man who came love- 
making he looked less prepossessing than he himself might 
have wished. 

Good-afternoon, Mr. Thistlewood/’ said the girl, in a 
tone which a sensitive man might have thought purposely 
defensive. 

‘‘ Isit yes or no to-day, Bertha?^^ asked Mr. Thistlewood,. 

It has always been no,’’ she answered, looking down. 

“ Oh,” he answered, ‘‘ I’m perfectly aware of that. It 
has always been no up till now, but that’s no reason why it 
should be no to-day. And if it’s no to-day that’s no reason 
why it should be no again this day three months. Maids:- 
change their minds, my dear. ” 

‘‘It is a pity you should waste your time, Mr. Thistle- 
wood,” said Bertha, still looking down. 

“ As for wasting my time,” returned John Thistlewood,. 
“ that’s a thing as few can charge me with as a general 
yile. And in this particular case, you see, I can’t help 
myself. The day I see you married I shall make up my 
mind to leave you alone until such time as you might hap- 
pen to be a widow, and if that should come to pass I should 
reckon myself free to come again.” 

“ It has always been no,” said Bertha. “ It is no to- 
day. It will always be no.” 

The words in themselves were sufficiently decisive, and 
the voice, though it had something soft and regretful in it, 
sounded almost as final as the words. 

“ Let’s look at it a bit, my dear,” said John Thistle- 
wood, grasping in both hands the thick walking-stick he 
carried, and pressing it firmly against his thighs as he 
leaned a little forward and looked down upon her. “ Why 
is it no? And if it’s no again to-day, why is it always going^ 
to be no?” 

“ I like you very well, Mr. Thistlewood,” she answered, 
looking up at him, “ but I don’t like you in a marrying 
way, and I never shall.” 


10 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


‘‘As for never shall/'' said he, “that remains to be 
seen.'’^ 

He straightened himself as he spoke, and releasing the 
walking-stick with his left hand put the point of it softly, 
slowly, and strongly down upon the gravel, dinting the 
ground pretty deeply with the pressure. 

“ Let^s look at it a little further,^ ^ he added. 

“ It is of no use, the girl answered pleadingly. “It 
hurts us both, and it can do no good at all. 

“ Let’s look at it a bit further,” he said again. “ This 
day month you said there was nobody you’d seen you liked 
better than me. Is that true still?” 

“It is quite true,” she answered, “but it makes no 
difference. ” 

“ That remains to be seen,” said John Thistle wood 
^gain. ‘ ‘ And as for not liking me in a marrying way, 
that’s a thing a maid can’t be supposed to know much of.” 
He waited doggedly as if to hear her deny this, but sh^ 
made no answer. “ You’ve known me all your life, Bertha, 
and you never knew anything again me.” 

“ Never,” she said, almost eagerly. 

“ I’m well-to-do,” he went on, stohdly, but with all his 
force, as if he were pushing against a wall too heavy to be 
moved by any pressure he could bring to bear against it, 
and yet was resolute to have it down. “ I’m not too old to 
be a reasonable match for a maid of your years. You’ve 
had my heart this five years. I waited two afore I spoke at 
all. There’s a many — not that I speak it in a bragging 
way — as would be willing enough to have me.” 

“ It’s a pity you can’t take a fancy to one of them,” she 
aaid, with perfect simplicity and good faith. 

“Perhaps it is,” answered Thistlewood, with a dogged 
sigh; “ but be that as it may, I can’t and sha’n’t. Where 
my fancy lies it stays. I didn’t give my heart away to take 
it back again. You’ll wed me yet, Bertha, and when you 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTEKFLY. 


11 


do you’ll be surprised to think you didn’t do it. long be- 
fore. ’ ’ 

At this point the voice of a third person broke in upon 
the colloquy. 

‘‘ That caps all!” said the voice. “ There’s Mr. Forbes, 
the Scotch gardener at my Lord Barfield’s, tells me of a lad 
in his parts as prayed the Lord for a good consate of him- 
self. That’s a prayer as you’ll never find occasion t’olfer, 
J ohn Thistlewood. ” 

‘‘ May be not, Mrs. Fellowes,” answered Thistlewood, 
addressing the owner of the voice, who remained invisible; 
“ but I wasn’t speaking in a braggart way.” 

‘‘ No — no,” returned the still invisible intruder. Wast 
humble enough about it, doubtless. You’m bound to tek 
a man’s own word about his own feelings. Who is to know 
’em if he doesn’t?” 

“Just so,” said Thistlewood, with great dryness. He 
appeared to be little if at all disturbed by the interruption, 
but Bertha was blushing like a peony. 

“I sat quiet,” said the girl’s mother, leisurely Walking 
round the door with a half-finished gray-worsted stocking 
depending from the knitting-needles she carried in both 
hands — “ I sat quiet so as not to be a disturbance. It’s 
you for making love to a maid, I must allow, John.” 

The girl ran into the house and disappeared from view. 

“ It’s me for speaking my mind, at least, ma’am,” re- 
turned John, with unaltered, tranquil doggedness. 

“Ah!” responded the farmer’s wife; “you’re like a 
good many more of ’em; you’d sooner not have what you 
want than go the right way to get it.” 

Thistlewood digested this in silence, and Mrs. Fellowes 
set the knitting-needles flashing. 

“ I’ve always fancied,” he said in a little while, “ as I 
had your good will in the matter. ” 

“You’ve got my good will, in a way, to be sure,” said 
the old woman. “ You’d mek the gell a goodish husband 


12 


BULLDOG AND BUTTEKFLY. 


if her could find a fancy for you — but the fancy’s every- 
thing — don’t you see, John?” 

“I’m not above taking advice, Mrs. Fellowes,” said 
Thistle wood, digging at the gravel with his walking-stick. 

Will you be so good as to tell me where I’m wrong?” 

“ There’s one particular as you’re wrong in,” returned 
Mrs. Fellowes, knitting away with a determinedly uninter- 
esting air, “ and, I misdoubt me, you can’t alter it.” 

“ What’s that?” asked Thistlewood, looking up at her 
suddenly. 

“ You’re the wrong man, John.” 

“ That remains to be seen,” he answered, with the same 
dogged patience as before. 

“ You can’t win a maid’s heart by going at her as solemn 
as a funeral,” pursued the old woman. “If you’d ha’ 
begun sprightly with the gell, you might ha’ had a chance 
with her. ‘ La!’ says you, ‘ what a pretty frock you’re 
a- wearing to-day;’ or ‘ How nice you do up your hair for a 
certainty.’ ” 

“ I don’t look on marriage as a thing to be approached 
V that fashion,” said Thistlewood. 

“ Well,” returned the old woman, choking her needles 
with added rapidity, “ I’ve always said there’s no end to 
the folly o’ men. D’ye hear that there cuckoo? Go and 
catch him wi’ shoutin’ at him. An’ when next you’re in 
want of toast at tay-time, soak your bread in a pan o’ cold 
water. ” 

Thistlewood stood for a time in a rather dogged-looking 
.silence, sometimes glancing at the notable woman and 
glancing away again. Her eye expressed a triumph which, 

. though purely dialectic, was hard for a disappointed lover 
to endure, even whilst he refused to recognize his disap- 
pointment. 

“ I should regard any such means of gettin’ into a maid’s 
good graces as being despisable,” he said, after awhile, 
t “Very well, my Christian friend,” the farmer’s wife 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


13 


retorted, with a laugh. ‘‘ Them as mek bread without 
barm must look to spoil the batch. 

I was niver of a flatterin^ turn of mind,^' said Thistle- 
wood. 

You niver was, John,^^ responded Mrs. Fellowes, with 
an accent which implied something beyond assent. 

He flushed a little, and began to tap at his corduroyed 
leg with the stick he carried, at first with a look of shame- 
faced discomfiture, and then with resolution. He finished 
with a resounding slap, and looked up with a light in his 
eyes. 

Fm pretty hard to beat, ma^am,^^ he said, ‘‘ though I 
say it as should not. I^m not going to be conquered here 
if I can help it. And I look to have you and Mr. Fellowes 
on my side, as far as may be asked in reason. Herfil find 
no better husband than I should be to her, 1 am sure. 
There^s more than a wheedlin^ tongue required to mek a 
married woman happy. Fve pretty well proved as I^m not 
changeable. There^s a strong arm to tek care of her. 
There’s a homely house with plenty in it. There’s a good- 
ish lump at the bank, and there’s nothing heart can desire 
as her might not have by asking for it. ” 

Well, John,” said the farmer’s wife, clicking her 
needles cheerfully, ‘‘ I’ve not a word to say again the 
match. Win the wench and welcome. My dancin’ days 
is pretty nigh over, but I’ll tek the floor once more with 
pleasure, if you won’t be too long inmekin’ ready for me.” 

“ There’s nothing more to be done at present, I sup- 
pose,” the lover said presently, “ and so I’ll say good-bye 
for this afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes.” 

With this he turned upon his heel, and, marching sturdily 
down the path and across the little bridge, disappeared be- 
hind the withies and pollards. 

The farmer’s wife waited awhile until he was out of hear- 
ing, and then without turning her head shrilled out ‘‘ Ber- 
tha !’ ’ The girl came silently down-stairs and joined her in 


14 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTEKFLY. 


tlie door-way. The mother pursued her knitting in silence^ 
a faint flicker of a humorous smile touching her face and 
eyes now and again. At length she spoke, looking straight 
before her. 

‘‘ Why woot^ent marry the man?^^ 

“ Mr. Thistlewood?’^ asked Bertha, making the feeblest 
possible defense against this direct attack. 

Ay,^^ said her mother. “ Mr. Thistle wood to be sure. 
Why woot^ent marry him?’^ 

‘‘ I like him well enough in a way,^^ the girl answered. 
‘‘ But I donT like him that way.^^ 

What way:^^ 

“ Why — in a marrying wa5%^^ said Bertha. 

Pooh!^^ answered the notable woman. ‘‘ What^s a 
maid know how sheM like a manr’^ 

‘‘ I should have the greatest respect for him,^^ Bertha 
answered, wisely avoiding the discussion of this question, 
“ if he wouldnT come bothering me to marry him.^^ 

“ Ay!^'’ said her mother, assenting with a philosophic air, 
‘‘ That^s a wenches way. When a man wants nothing herTl 
give him as much as her can spare. But look hither, my 
gell! You listen to the words of a old experienced woman. 
There^s a better love comes after the weddin^ if a gell mar^ 
ries a worthy solid man, than ever her knows before it. If 
a gell averts from a man that^s another matter. But if her 
can abide him to begin with, and if he^s a good man, herTl 
be fond of him afore her knows it.^^ 

I should never be fond of Mr. Thistle wood, mother, 
the girl answered, flushing hotly. ‘‘ It^s of no use to speak 
about him. ^ ’ 

“ Did the man ever mek love to you at all,” the mother 
asked, “ beyond comin^ here and barkin% ‘ WooPt marry 
me?""" 

‘‘ I wish you wouldn"t talk of him, mother,"" Bertha an- 
swered in a troubled voice. “ I respect him very highly. 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


15 


but as for marrying liim, it’s out of the question. I can’t 
do it. ” 

“ Well, well,” returned her mother, “nobody’s askin’ 
you to do anything o’ the sort. I’m trying to find your 
mind about him. It’s high time ’twas made up one way 
or other. You’ve come to a marriageable age.” 

“ I’m very well as I am,” said Bertha, rather hastily. 

I’m not in a hurry to be married.” 

You’ve never been much like other gells,” said her 
mother with a dry humorous twinkle, which looked more 
masculine than feminine. “But I reckon you’ll be in 
iibout as much of a hurry as the rest on ’em be when the 
right man comes. ” 

At this moment a whistle of peculiar volume, mellow- 
ness, and flexibility was heard. The whistler was trilling 

Come lasses and lads ” in tones as delightful as a black- 
bird’s. 

“ Is this him?” said the old woman, turning upon her 
daughter. 

Bertha blushed, and turned away. The mother laughed. 
A light footstep sounded on the echoing boards of the little 
bridge, and the human blackbird, marching gayly in time 
to his tune, flourished a walking-stick in salutation as he 
approached. 

“ Good-afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes,” cried the new-comer. 

Good-afternoon, Miss Fellowes.” 

They both returned his salutation, and he stood before 
them smilingly, holding his stick lightly by the middle, 
and swinging it hither and thither, as if keeping time to an 
inward, silent tune. His feet were planted a little apart, 
he carried his head well back, and his figure was very alert 
and lithe. He made great use of his lips in talking, and 
whatever he said seemed a little overdone in emphasis. His 
expression was eager, amiable, and sensitive, and it changed 
like the complexion of water in variable weather. He was 
a bit of a dandy in his way, too. His clothes showed liis 


16 


BULLDOG AN'D BUTTERFLY. 


slim and elastic figure to the best advantage, and a bright- 
colored neckerchief with loose flying ends helped out a cer- 
tain air of festal rural opera which belonged to him. 

‘‘I passed Thistlewood on my way here,'^he said, laugh- 
ing brightly. “ He looked as cheerful as a frog. Hid y^ 
ever notice what a cheerful-looking thing a frog is?” 

He made a face ludicrously like the creature he men- 
tioned. The old woman laughed outright, and Bertha 
smiled, though somewhat unwillingly. 

“ I donT like to hear Mr. Thistlewood made game of, 
Mr. Protheroe,” she said a moment later. 

“ DonT you. Miss Fellowes?^^ asked Mr. Protheroe* 
“ Then it sha'n^’t be done in your presence again.” 

“ That means it may be done out of my presence, I sup- 
pose,” the girl said, coldly. 

‘‘No, nor out of it,” said the young fellow, bowing with 
something of a flourish, “ if it displeases you.” 

“ Come in. Lane, my lad,” said the mother, genially. 
“ I\e got the poultry to look after at this hour. BerthaTl 
tek care of you till I come back again. 

Lane Protheroe bowed again with the same gay flourish, 
and recovering himself from the bow with an upward swing 
of the head, followed the women -folk into the wide kitchen 
as if he had been crossing the floor in a minuet. If these 
airs of his had been assumed they would have touched the 
ridiculous, but they were altogether natural to him; and 
what with them and his smiling, changeful, sympathetie 
ways, he was a prime favorite, and seemed to carry sun- 
shine into all sorts of company. 

When the mother had left the kitchen the girl seated her- 
self considerably apart from the visitor, and taking up a 
book from a dresser beside her, began to turn over its pages, 
stopping now and again to read a line or two, and rather 
ostentatiously disregarding her companion. He sat in 
silence, regarding her with a grave face for a minute or 
thereabouts, and then, rising, crossed the room and placed 


BULLDOG AND BUTTEKFLY. 


17 


himself beside her, bending over her, with one hand resting 
on the dresser. She did not look up in answer to this move- 
ment, bat bent her head even a little more than before 
above the book. 

‘‘ I^’m glad to be left alone with you for a minute. Miss 
Tellowes,^^ he began gently, and with a faint tremor and 
hesitation in his voice, “ because IVe something very spe- 
cial and particular to say to you/^ 

There he paused, and Bertha with a slight cough, which 
was a trifle too casual and unembarrassed to be real, said, 
“ Indeed, Mr. Protheroer’^ and kept her eyes upon the 
book. 

“ They say a girl always knows, he went on, ‘‘ and if 
thaPs true you know already what I want to say.’^ 

He paused, but if he expected any help from her in the 
way either of assent or denial, he was disappointed. He 
stooped a little lower and touched her hand with a gentle 
timidity, but she at once withdrew it. 

‘‘ You know I love you, Bertha? You know you Ye 
dearer to me than all the whole wide world beside ?'' 

Still Bertha said nothing, but the hand that turned the 
leaves of the book trembled perceptibly. 

“ lYe come to ask you if you^ll be my wife, dear! if 
you ^11 let me make you my lifelong care and joy, my dar- 
ling! You donY guess how much I love you. You donY 
know how much your answer means to me.^^ 

The girl rose, and, carrying the book with her, walked te 
the kitchen-window and looked out upon the garden, tha 
river, and the fields, without seeing anything. She was 
evidently agitated, and did not find an answer easily. Lane 
followed her, and when for a moment she dared to look up 
at him she encountered a look so tender, anxious, and 
ardent that she lowered her eyes in quick confusion. He 
seized her hand, and for a brief instant she let it rest in his. 

“ Speak to me,^^he murmured, caressingly and plead- 
ingly. '‘‘Tell me. 


18 


BULLDOG AND BUTTEKFLY. 


‘‘ I don^t understand you, Mr. Protheroe,^^ the girl said, 
pantingly. 

“ Not understand me, dear? he whispered; I am ask- 
ing you to be my wife. 

understand that,” she answered, drawing herself 
away from him, and speaking with difficulty. “ It is you 
I don^t understand. You — yourself. 

‘‘ Tell me how, darling,” he said, softly. 

You tell me,’’ she said, lifting a pale and agitated face, 

that I canT guess how much my answer means to you. 
But you come here whistling and dancing, as you always 
come, as if you hadnT a care upon your mind.^^ 

Don’t make that a reproach against me, dear,” said he. 

AVhy it was just the thought of you made me so happy.” 

She looked up at him with an expression of doubt and 
pain, and as their eyes met he caught one of her hands in 
both his, and held it. 

Dear Bertha!” he said, with a sudden moisture in his 
eyes. There is nobody so good. There is nobody so 
lovely. ” 

She drew away from him again, though some sort of 
electric influence seemed to come out of him, and draw her 
strongly to him. 

“ I must wait,” she said. “ I — I don’t know you well 
enough. I don’t understand you. You are too light. You 
are too careless. I don’t know how far I can believe you.” 

Oh!” he cried, “ believe me altogether, dear. I love 
you with all my heart and soul!” 

She moved to the middle of the room, and sheltered her- 
self behind a table which stood there. 

‘‘I hardly know whether you have a heart,” she an- 
swered then. “ You fancy you feel all you say,” she added 
quickly. “ You feel it for the minute.” 

He stood at the other side of the table with brows sud- 
denly grown gloomy. 

I shall feel it all my life,” he said. “ It’s the one 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


19 


thinp^ IVe ever been in earnest about. I never thought I 
should feel as I 'do. If you like to wait, dear, before an- 
swering me. I’ll wait just as long as ever you please.” His 
gloom was gone, and he was all eagerness and vivacity 
again. ‘‘ There’s nothing I won’t do for your asking. I’ll 
cure every fault I’ve got. I’ll be everything you’d like to 
have me. Try me, darling. Wait and see. But give me 
only just a little bit of hope. Don’t send me away quite 
hungry. Tell me you care for me just a little — not as I 
care for you — I don’t expect that. It doesn’t stand to rea- 
son yet awhile you should. ” 

There she shot one swift glance at him, averting her 
gaze at once. 

“ I won’t say I don’t like you,” she answered with a 
candor half rustic, half characteristic of herself. ‘‘ But I 
won’t answer yes or no just yet.” 

‘‘ Very well, dear,” he answered, tenderly. “You shall 
have time to know if I’m in earnest, or if I’ve taken noth- 
ing more than a passing fancy. Shall I ask you again this 
day six months?” 

“ I won’t promise you an answer then,” she said. “ I 
will answer you when I am certain. ” 

“You could care for me, then,” he urged her, “ if you 
were only quite sure I loved you, and always would love 
you? Why, Bertha, I’d put my hand in that fire to save 
you from a finger-ache. I’d jump into the Weale there if 
I thought I could make you happy by doing it. I’d live 
my whole life your servant for a smile a year.” 

His eyes flashed or moistened with every phrase, his gest- 
ures were superabundant and intense, and his voice was 
genuinely tender and impassioned. 

His ardent eyes and voice thrilled the girl, and yet she 
doubted him. There was a fear in her mind which she 
could not shake away. 

People in Beacon Hargate were not rich in opportunities 
for the study of the acted drama, but Bertha had seen a 


20 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


play or two in the great town hard by, and Lane looked 
and talked rather too much like a stage lover to her mind. 
In the unreal life behind the foot-lights lovers talked with 
Just such a fluency. Just such a tender fiery emphasis. In 
real life John Thistlewood came doggedly a-wooing with a 
shoulder propped against a door-post, and had hard work to 
find a word for himself. If only that one absent element 
of faith could be imported into the business. Lane Proth- 
eroe^’s fashion of courting was certain to be infinitely more 
delightful than John Thistlewood ^s, but then the absent 
element was almost everything. And for poor Bertha the 
worst part of it seemed that she loved the man she doubted, 
and could not love the man in whose affection she held the 
profoundest faith. That the rough, clumsy, and persistent 
courtier loved her was one of the indisputable facts of life 
to her. She knew it just as surely as she knew that she 
was alive. She knew it, and the knowledge hurt her, for 
she could fancy nothing less hopeful than Thistlewood ^s 
wooing, and she was without a spark of mere vanity. 

I think it is because you say so much that I donT feel 
quite able to believe it all,^^ she said. You feel it when 
you talk about it, but it seems to me as if you had to talk 
before you get to feel it.^^ 

His brows bent down over gloomy eyes again, and he 
folded his arms as he looked at her. Once more poor 
Bertha thought of the stage lover she had seen, and a long- 
drawn sigh escaped her. 

‘‘ I canT think iPs all quite real,^^ she said, almost des- 
perately. 

‘‘ You think I say too much?^^ he retorted. It seems 
to me as if I said too little. It seems to me as if there 
weren't any words to speak such thoughts and feelings. " 

“ Is that because you don't value the words?" she asked 
him. “ Don't you think that if you felt what the words do 
mean that they'd seem enough for you?" 

‘‘ I know I'm a good-for-nothing beggar," he answered. 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


21 


with a sudden air of weary self-loathing and disdain. ‘‘ I 
know. IVe got a way of taking everything in deadly 
earnest for an hour or two. But/^ with a sudden swerve 
into the track of self -justification, “if that makes you 
think I^m fickle and weak-willed, you^re all wrong, dar- 
ling. There are some fellows — I know plenty — who go 
through life hke a lot of oysters. They don’t feel anything 
—they don’t care about anything, or anybody. But, bless 
your heart, my dear, they never get doubted.” 

Bertha took this for a satiric dig at the absent Thistle- 
wood, and spoke up for him, needlessly as it happened. 

“ Still waters run deep, Mr. Protheroe.” 

“ Some of ’em do,” responded Mr. Protheroe with pro- 
loundest gloom, which lightened suddenly into a smile as 
bright as sunshine. “But some of ’em don’t run at all. 
And some of ’em are as shallow as any puddle you’ll find 
along the road, only they’re so bemuddied you can’t see to 
the bottom of ’em. You can plumb ’em with your little 
finger, though, if you don’t mind soiling it.” 

Now this innocent generalization seemed gratuitously 
offensive to the absent Thistlewood, and chilled Bertha 
greatly. 

“ That may be very true of some people,” she respond- 
ed; “ but it isn’t true of all the quiet people in the world. 
And I don’t think, Mr. Protheroe, that the people who 
make the greatest parade of their feelings are the people 
who really have the most to speak of. ” 

“ Why, that’s true, too, of some people,” returned 
Protheroe; “ but there are all sorts in the world, dear. 
Some say a lot and feel a lot. Some feel a lot and say 
nothing. Some say nothing and feel nothing. It may be 
a fault with me — I don’t know — but when I start to say a 
thing I want to say all of it. But surely a feeling isn’t less 
real because you don’t seem able to express it whatever 
words you choose.” 


22 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


Where the feeling’s sacred the words are sacred/^ 
Bertha objected. 

‘‘ Tell me what it is you fear about me/’ he besought 
her, leaning across the table and searching her face with his 
eyes. “ You don’t believe I should have a wandering mind 
if you said yes, and we should once be married.^” 

She had laid the book upon the table, and now betook 
herself to fingering the leaves again. 

I’ve no right to pick faults in you, or give you lessons, 
Mr. Protheroe.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, you have,” he answered. All the right in 
the world. If you’ll take in hand to show me my faults. 
I’ll take in hand to cure ’em, so far as a man may. ” 

I don’t think you’re fickle,” said the girl hesitatingly; 

but I do think you’re shallow, Mr. Protheroe.” 

‘‘ Not a bit of it, dear,” he protested. ‘‘ I’m as deep as 
Garrick. As for your still waters running deep, it’d be a 
better proverb to my mind to say deep waters run still — at 
times. Niagara’s deepish, folks say that have seen it. 
That’s not to say that I even myself with Niagara, you’ll 
understand, though ’tis in my nature to splash about a good 
deal. But all that apart, Bertha dear, try to make up your 
mind to take me as I am, and help me to make a man o’ 
myself.” 

At this point back came the farmer’s wife with a clatter 
of pails in the back kitchen to indicate her arrival in ad- 
vance. Lane took his leave with a reluctant air, going 
away much more gravely than he had arrived. 

‘‘ Well,” said Mrs. Fellowes, drawing her knitting from 
a capacious pocket and falling to work upon it at once, 
‘‘ hast sent Number Two about his business:” 

Bertha cast an embarrassed look at her and blushed. 

“ Mother,” she said, “ you seem to find out everything.” 
Can find my way to the parish church by daylight,” 
the elder woman answered with complacency. But you 
tek care, my wench, whilst thee beest thro win’ all the 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


23 


straight sticks aside as thee doesn^t pick up a crooked un 
at tlie last. Thee hast a fancy for the lad, too. That^s 
as plain to be seen as the Beacon.-’^ 

“Oh!” cried Bertha, reddening again. “ I hope not.” 

“ For me, my gell,” said her mother. “ For me. And 
it’s outside my thinkin’ why a maid shouldn’t tek a fancy 
to him. A lad as is stiddy an’ handsome, and as blithe as 
sunshine! He’s as fond as a calf into" the bargain.” 

8tie liked to hear him praised, and, woman-like, began to 
depreciate him faintly. 

“ I don’t think he’s very solid, mother,” she said. 

The elder woman smiled at the transparent artifice, and 
refused to be entrapped by it. 

“ No,” she answered. “ Lane’s a bit of a butterfly, I 
will say. And Jack Thistlewood’s a bull-dog. Mek your 
ch’ice betwixt ’em while they’m there to be chose from. 
Which is it to be? Butterfly or bull-dog?” 

But Bertha answered nothing. 


II. 

Things may have changed of late years, but in those 
days the parish church-yard was the great meeting-place for 
lovers who as yet were undeclared or unaccepted. The 
youth and the maid were both there for a purpose alto- 
gether removed from love-making — the meeting had the 
advantage of being accidental and certain. It was a tacit 
assignation which was almost certain to be kept, and even 
the shyest of sweethearts would dare to walk homeward to- 
gether a little of the way even in the lightest of summer 
evenings. 

When Sunday morning came, and the one musical bell 
began to tinkle, Bertha stood before her open bedroom win- 
dow, tying her bonnet ribbons at the glass, in the embar- 
rassing certainty that both her lovers would be waiting out- 


24 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


side the church to meet her. This certainty was the less 
to be endured, because Bertha had the sincerest desire to 
close with heavenly rather than with earthly meditations on 
a Sunday, but she could no more help being flustered by 
the thought of Lane Protheroe, 'and being chilled by tho 
anticipation of Thistlewood’s look of bull-dog fidelity, than 
she could help breathing. The girPs trouble was that she 
could not give her heart to the man who commanded her 
respect, whilst it was drawn fluttering with all manner of 
electric palpitations toward another whom she thought in- 
finitely less worthy. 

There was nothing in the world against Lane Protheroe 
in any serious sense. Nobody spoke or thought ill of him, 
or had ground for ill speaking or thinking. But it was 
generally conceded that he loas a butterfly kind of young 
fellow, and there was a general opinion that he wanted 
ballast. Eural human nature is full of candor of a sort,, 
and Lane was accustomed to criticism. He took it with a 
bright carelessness, and in respect to the charge of wanting 
ballast, was apt to answer that ballast was a necessary 
thing for boats that carried no cargo. Thistle wood was 
generally admitted to be a well-ballasted personage — a man 
steady, resolved, serious, entirely trustworthy. 

“ John Thistlewood^s word is as good as his bond,^^ said 
one of his admirers one day in his presence. 

“John Thistle woody’s word is his bond,'' said John 
Thistle wood, “ as any man's ought to be." 

People remembered the saying, and quoted it as being 
characteristic of the man — a man cut roughly out of the.; 
very granite of fidelity. 

Surely, thought Bertha, a girl ought to esteem herself 
happy in being singled out by such a man. The cold sur- 
face covered so steady, so lasting a glow. And as for Lane 
—well. Lane's heats seemed the merest flashes, intense 
enough to neat what was near them, but by no means en- 
during. There was danger that anything which was of a 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


25 


nature to keep on burning might catch fire at him, and 
when well lit might find that the creating heat had gone 
out, or had withdrawn itself. She knew herself, by in- 
stinct, faithful to the core, and if once she consented to 
love the man, she would have to go on doing it. That 
looked likely to be terrible, and she fought against herself 
continually. And she not only tried not to love the butter- 
fly, but had tried her loyal hardest to love the bull-dog. 
The last chance of success in the second enterprise went out 
finally when Thistlewood had once so far conquered his 
clumsy reticence of manner as actually to put his arm 
^bout her waist. Then every fiber of her body cried out 
against him, and she escaped him, shivering and thrilling 
with a repulsion so strong that it seemed like a crime to 
her. How dared she feel the touch of so estimable a man 
to be so hateful? But from that moment the thing was 
settled beyond a doubt. She could respect John Thistle- 
wood, she could admire the solidity and faithfulness of his 
character — but, marry him? That was asking for more than 
nature could agree to. 

If Lane had only resembled John a little — ah! there was 
a glow of certainty called up by that fancy which might 
have been altogether delicious had the fancy been w^ell 
grounded. If John had only been a little more like Lane? 
She was hardly so sure. Obviously, John was not the man 
for this girl to warm her heart at. 

The worst of it was that he would never find or look for 
another girl, and his long courtship, though it could never 
endear him, or even make him tolerable as a lover, served 
at least to have established a sort of claim upon her. The 
great, faithful heart might break if she should throw her- 
self away. The depth of his affection, as she realized it 
for herself, could only be understood by one capable of an 
equal passion. She never guessed, or came near to guess- 
ing, that her conception of him was the realization of her- 
self; but it is only great hearts which truly know what 


26 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


great hearts can be, and her profound conception of 
Thistle wood’s fidelity was her own best certificate to faith- 
fulness. 

The little musical bell went on tinkling as she walked 
across the fields. It had various rates of movement to in- 
dicate to distant worshipers the progress of the time, and 
she gave a careful ear to its warnings, so regulating her 
steps as only to enter the church -yard at the last minute. 

There sure enough were both John and Lane waiting to 
pay their morning salutation. Happily, to her own mind, 
there was time for no more than a mere handshaking and 
a good-morning, and she walked into the church, beauti- 
fully tranquil to look at, though she could hardly believe 
that all the congregation could not guess with what a 
startled feeling her heart had begun to beat. By and by 
the influences of the place and the service began to soothe 
her, though she only succeeded in excluding her lovers by a 
conscious process of forgetfulness which was not so far re- 
moved from memory as it might have been. 

The Thistle wood pew was a little 'to the front on her 
right, and the Protheroe- pew a little to her front on the 
left, but she kept her eyes so studiously downcast that she 
got no glimpse of either, until a strange and altogether re- 
markable feeling of something missing surprised her into 
looking up. Her eyes went first to the Protheroe pew, and 
Lane was not there. Then in spite of herself she listened 
for Thistlewood’s voice in the Responses, and not detecting 
it was impelled to look for him. He also was absent, and 
she began to quake a little. Was it possible they had stayed 
outside to quarrel? This fear would have been sufficiently 
senous at any time, but on a Sunday, during church hours, 
it magnified itself, which fact is in itself enough to prove 
that though the idea perturbed her she foresaw no very ter- 
rible consequences. It would be hateful to be quarreled 
over, but both the combatants — if combatants they were te 
be — would respect her too much to proceed to extremities. 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


37 


and thereby make the quarrel public, and her a target for 
all tongues. 

J ohn and Lane had met in the church-yard pretty early, 
and whilst there were friends to greet, and to pass the time 
of day with, things went smoothly enough. But as the 
church-goers filed by ones and twos into the building, each 
began to be aware of a solitude which was peopled only by 
the disagreeable presence of the other. John, ostentatious- 
ly disregardful of his adversary, planted himself at the 
gate, so as to be before him in his greeting. Lane, rather 
unusually erect and martial in his walk, marched past him 
into the village road-way, and there loitered for the same 
intent. Thistlewood, recognizing the meaning of this 
maneuver, strolled into the road- way, and doggedly planted 
himself a yard or two beyond the spot where his rival had 
halted. Lane, with an air to the full as ostentatiously and 
offensively disregardful as the other’s, marched past 
Thistlewood with half a dozen soldierly looking strides, and 
bringing himself to an abrupt halt made a disdainful back 
at him. Again Thistlewood advanced, but this time he 
drew himself up a trifle behind his rival, and laid a finger 
on his shoulder. 

“ Well?” said Protheroe, without turning his head. 

‘‘I shall want a word with thee, by and by, my lad,” 
Thistlewood said quietly. 

Have it now,” replied Lane, settling his shoulders 
jauntily. 

There’s time in plenty afore us,” Thistlewood an- 
swered, regarding him with supreme disfavor. 

The younger man looked straight before him with an ex- 
asperating aspect of indifference. 

When you like,” he said. 

“ Very well,” replied Thistlewood. “ In five minutes’ 
time from now. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Church time,” said Lane smilingly, surveying the 
landscape. 


2S 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


“ Beesfc that keen set on the sermon?’^ John inquired. 

“ Don't know that I am/' replied the enemy, rising a 
little on his toes, and then settling his shoulders anew. 

‘‘ Five minutes time from now." 

The jaunty airs and scornful disregard began to warm 
Thistle wood’s blood a little. 

Cans’t look a man i’ the face when thee talk'st to 
him?" he asked. 

Yes, bless your heart and soul alive!" cried Lane, 
swaggering round and beaming on him. 

For half a minute they looked at each other, the one 
angry, resolute, and lowering, with head bent a little for- 
ward, his glance directed upward past his down-drawn 
brows, the other smiling with seeming sweetness and 
gayety. 

Thistlewood seemed to restrain himself with something 
of an effort. 

“ We’ll talk together by and by,” he said, and turning, 
deliberately walked back into the church-yard. 

For a few seconds Lane stood glorying, but on a sudden 
it occurred to him that his rival was behaving in a more 
dignified manner than himself, and this was a reflection 
not to be endured without instant action. So he marched 
back into the church-yard also, and left John in the fore- 
ground. When Bertha appeared her elder lover paid his 
respects first, and Lane came up afterward, looking, as she 
remembered later on, prodigiously gloomy and resolved. 

The bell had been silent for a minute, and the curate’s 
voice had begun to drone within the building. The rivals 
were alone, and nobody was within sight or ear-shot. 

Shall we walk a pace or two, Mr. Protheroe?" asked 
J ohn. 

Mr. Protheroe, without speaking, sauntered out at the 
gate, vaulted a stile opposite, and paused in a field pathway. 
Thistlewood followed, throwing first one leg and then the 
other over the rail with a sort of labored deliberation. 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 




“ Novv/^ said Lane. 

Well walk on a little bit/^ answered Thistlewood, and 
there was silence for a minute or two as they strode along 
the grass. Then when they had reached the shelter of a 
little copse which hid them from the whole landscape on 
the church side, John said “ Now/^ in turn, and the fwo 
halted. Each was paler than common by this time, and 
Lane^s eyes sparkled, whilst the other ^s burned steady with 
resentment. 

“ •’Twixt man and man as is willing to come to under- 
stand one another, Mr. Protheroe,’^ said Tliistlewood, a 
veiy few words suffices. ITl have thee, nor no man else,, 
poaching on my manor. 

‘‘ Well,^^ Lane answered, if ever I should arrive at 
owning a manor, IM say the same. But IM be sure of my 
title-deeds afore I took to warning other men off the 
ground.^’ 

‘‘ Let’s talk plain English,” said John, apparently quite 
untouched by this rejoinder. 

“ With all my heart,” said his rival. ‘‘ The i3lainer the 
better.” 

I find you very much i’ the way,” Thistlewood began,, 
ponderously. 

‘‘ I don’t find you a little bit in mine,” Lane answered. 

You talk to sting,” said Thistlewood, with dull dignity. 
‘‘ I want to talk so as to be understood. I find you ver^ 
much i’ my way, as I was saying, and I Won’t have you: 
theer.” 

‘‘ No?” 

“No!” 

“ And how do you mean to set about getting rid of me?”" 

^ “ I’ve set about harder jobs than that i’ my time, lad.”" 

“ Like enough. But how do you mean to set about this 
one?” 

“All in good time,” said Thistlewood. “ Sha’st find 
out speedily.” 


so 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTEEFLY. 


Show me now/^ said Lane. 

A breach of the peace seemed imminent, but, 

“ Afore thee and me comes to that,’’ the elder answered, 
‘‘ I want thee to have fair warnin’. It’s unbecomin’ in a 
man to brawl over the maid he wants to marry — I’m a 
man as niver changed nor halted nor turned aside from 
anything he set his mind upon. I’ve been courtin’ Miss 
Fellowes now this three year. It stands to reason as a 
frivolish young chap like you can mek no count of how a 
man feels, or of what a man ’ud do in a like case.” 

‘‘ That stands to reason, does it.^” 

It stands to reason,” answered Thistle wood. 

‘ ‘ I suppose it stands to reason likewise that I am to 
stand to one side, and leave the road clear after this?” 

‘‘ It’d be the wisest tiling you ever did.” 

‘‘ Well, now, Thistlewood, you’ll please understand that, 
for all so frivolous as I may be, I’m hardly that easy to be 
swayed. As for who has a right on the ground, it’s a mere 
piece of impudence to talk about it. That’s neither for me 
nor you to choose. If ever I get straight ‘ No ’ I’ll go, but 
I’ll have it before I go, for that’s a man’s bound en duty to 
himself. ” 

Understand thyself as bein’ warned away,” said Thistle- 
wood. 

“ Understand thy vvarning as being laughed at,” an- 
swered Lane. ‘‘ You talk plain English? So will I. 
You’ve got the wrong pig by the ear. You’re no better 
than a dog in the manger. You’ve always been spoken of 
up till now as a man to play fair, but now it strikes me you 
play very far from fair, and cut a poor figure. As for 
threats — a man who won’t take a hiding when it’s offered 
to liim — what’s he good for, I should like to know?” 

Here, as elsewhere, Mr. Protheroe was true to nature, 
and spoke with striking emphasis. He was quite red-hot 
with scorn at the imaginary fellow who would not take the 
proffered hiding, though a minute earlier, when he had told 


BULLDOG AND BUTTEEFLY. 31 

Thistlewood that he had the wrong pig by the ear, his man- 
ner had been marked by a cold and lofty superiority. 

“ Beest warned!^^ said Thistlewood. ‘‘ That’s enough. 

‘‘ Not half enough, nor yet a quarter,’’ cried Lane, with 
a bellicose air, not unmixed with swagger. ‘‘ I’ve taught 
my hands to take care of my head, sir, and they’ll be ready 
to do it whenever the time occurs. But it always seemed a 
bit ridiculous to me to talk about fighting beforehand. 
When the fight’s over there is something to talk about. ” 
You seem to be in a hurry for that there hiding,” said 
Thistlewood. 

‘‘ Hurry’s no word for it,” the younger man responded, 
with cheerful alacrity. 

‘‘ Very well,” said the elder, taking oft his hat and be- 
stowing it carefully upon the grass; ‘‘ sha’st have it.” 

Lane, for his part, threw down his hat, flourished his coat 
oft, dropped it behind him, rolled up his sleeves, and wait- 
ed whilst Thistlewood made his preparations more slowly. 
Protheroe set that mellow whistle of his to work on The 
British Grenadiers,” and his enemy smiled grimly to think 
how soon he would silence the music. 

Half a minute later they were standing foot to foot and 
eye to eye, the music already silenced. It would have been 
difficult from the mere aspect of the men to say' on which 
side the advantage lay. In height and reach they were 
1 / equal, and, if Thistle wood’s weight and muscle were 
i I ; • fwor, Protheroe was as active as a cat. 

id here might have been recorded a bit of history to 
wa u, V'iO blood of such as love and remember the old-fash- 
ioiv manhood of England. We are grown too refined and 
civib':.ed nowadays for the old rude arbitrament, and so fair 
p' ceased to be the Englishman’s motto in fighting, 

''I'.t fhe English rustic shoots and stabs like the rustic of 
other la,] ids. All fighting is foolish, more or less, but we 
hr>^ ti j manliest, friendliest, most honorable, and least 
1 ;rmfui way of doing it amongst all the sons of men, and 


22 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


SO our legislature killed out the ‘‘ noble art from amongst 
us, and brought us to the general ugly level. 

It was in the reign of the Tipton Slasher — which as peo- 
ple learned in the history of manners will remember was a 
longish time ago — when these two Britons stood, up to 
arrange their differences after the fashion then in vogue. 
There was nobody to see fair play, and so they saw it for 
tlieinselves, as all fighting Englishmen did when there was 
a code of honor to go by. It was not a mere affjiir of ham- 
mer and tongs, but very fair scientific fighting, tne science 
vivified by enjoyment, and full of energy, but never forgot- 
ten for a second. The pleasure was keen on both sides, for 
from the beginning of their knowledge of each other these 
two had been in antagonism, and at the last it Was a real 
treat to let all go and have at it. 

‘‘ I was always a bit frivolous, as you said j^. 
Thistlewood,^'’ Lane remarked in the, firit enforced. 
the combat, but I^d like you to bear me wif^ness tnat I 
stick to what Fm at while I’m at it. 

This address was delivered pantingly, whilSj^jj^ ,_ 
lay fiat upon his back on the grass, with hi? : ' ^hrown 
out crosswise. Thistlewood disdained response, , sat 
with one great shoulder propped against a dwarf oak, 
breathing fast and hard. When this sign of distress had^a 
little abated, he arose and said, Time,” as if he had been 
a mere cornerman in the affair, and rather bored by it 
than otherwise. Lane rolled over on to hL face, to 
his hands and knees, smiled at his adversary fc] ^ ‘‘little 
while, as if to give him an appetite for the busines§^j^ \uid, 
^nd then got to his feet and made ready. i 

Inow for a man to hold his own at this particular form 
fighting against an equal adversary for a bare 
argues five grand things for him, and these ar 
temperance, hardihood, strength, and courage. It spe. 
well for these admirable qualities in both of them, taa 
Messrs. Thistlewood and Protheroe made a good hour 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


33 


The advantages and disadvantages had been so equally dis- 
tributed that by this time they were pretty nearly harmless 
to each other, but each was sustained by the hope of vic- 
tory, and each would have died, and, for the matter of 
that, would have gone on dying, rather than yield the pre- 
cious palm to the other. 

Now the clergyman who ministered to the spiritual wants 
of Beacon Hargate was never disposed to gorge his flock 
with too much doctrine at a time, and on this Sabbath had 
an invitation to luncheon at a great house some four or flve 
miles away, and so treated his parishioners — to the scandal 
of some and the joy of others — to the shortest discourse 
they had ever heard from the pulpit. By this mischance it 
happen^ that the combatants were discovered by a silent 
male advance-guard of the home-returning congregation, 
‘ ^iB^ck — ^his footsteps soundless on the grass-— to 

. ' the splendid^neWs. Sunday or w'eek-day there was 
no more welcome break in the monotony of life in Beacon 
Hargrat .'dan that afforded by a flght. The time being 
and the combatants men of respectable posi- 
tion, lent f\(|uancy to the event, of course, as who shall say 
me nay? ' The church-goers, two or three farmers, Mr. 
Drake, the manager of Lord Barfield\s estates at Heydon 
l£ey, and a handful of laborers came up, at first stealthily, 
and more boldly, and looked on at the flnish. 

It was plain' that the flght had been severe, but it was 
iflamThat the best of it was over; and when Farmer 
Tell r interposed as amicus curim, nobody but the two 

icerned had any special resentment against him. 

. . for them Farmer Fellowes had a crumb of comfort. 

' ^ it another time, lads,^^ he said. ‘‘ Where's the 
on wi’ it i' this manner? Why, a child might 
^.e pair on you. Get fresh an' have another turn 
i UOi ‘ovv, if the 'casion's worth it." 

• ^le fight was left undecided after all, and thead- 

,^' Vere led off to the neighboring brook, where they 
2 


84 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


made themselves as respectable to look at as they could be- 
fore they took their several ways. They were unsightly for 
a week or two, and were close watched by their women folk 
lest they should renew the strife. 

Beacon Hargate knew perfectly well the reason of the 
battle, and Bertha was mightily disdainful and indignant 
over both her lovers, who, to her fancy, had disgraced 
themselves and her. Six days after the fight John Thistle- 
wood’s business for once in a way, as well as his inclina- 
tion, took him to Fellowes’s farm, and there Bertha (who 
for very shame had not quitted the house since Sunday) 
first saw the result of the fray. The stalwart farmer’s face 
was discolored, and, in places, still swollen. She saw the 
wicked handiwork of Lane Protherue, and vowe^ within 
herself that she would see that dreadful young man no 
more. She could have cried for pity of poor Mr. Thistle- 
wood, who had been thus shamefully treated for the crime 
of being faithful in love. 

If John had known it, he had at this instant the best 
chance of being taken as Bertha’s husband he had ever had, 
or was like to find. But he was shamefaced about the mat- 
ter, as heroes not uncommonly are with regard to their 
achievements, and was disposed to think himself at an even 
unusual* disadvantage. 

Bertha stifled in her heart whatever tender sentiments 
Protheroe had inspired, and was prepared to pass him 
whenever she might meet him with such a manner as should 
indicate her new opinion of him beyond chance of mistake. 
Thistlewood had appeared on the Saturday, and on the 
Monday the fates threw her younger lover in her way. She 
discerned him from a distance, herself unseen. His figure 
dipped down into the hollow, and she could not see hini; 
again until they met at some turning or other of the tortit ^ 
ous lane. If pride had not forbidden it she could hav# 
turned to fly homeward, but she hardened her heart and 
went on until his footsteps sounded clearly on the stony road. 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


35 


Then he turned the corner, and she lifted one glance of 
superb disdain which melted suddenly under a terror- 
stricken pity. For this hero was worse battered than Num- 
ber One had been, and one of'those eyes, which had used to 
be so expressive and eloquent, was decorated by a shade. 

Oh, LaneT’’ cried the girl, clasping her hands, and 
turning white with pity. 

‘‘Did I frighten you, my dear?” said Lane. ‘^It^s 
nothing. It’ll all be right in a day or two. ” 

“ I hope so,” she answered, recovering herself, and seiz- 
ing on principle before it made away forever. ‘‘ I wish 
you to know that I think you have behaved very disgrace- 
fully, and I hope you will never speak to me again.” 

“ Why,” said Lane, “ that’s hard measure, Bertha; and 
as for behaving disgracefully — -if a man threatens to punch 
your head you must give him a chance to punch it. That’s 
man’s law, anyhow, whether it’s woman’s or not.” 

“ I am sure Mr. Thistlewood is no quarreler,” said Ber- 
tha, with great dignity and severity of demeanor. “ It 
takes no great penetration to guess who began it.” 

There’s one thing I will say for him,” returned Lane; 
he’s a truth-telling fellow to the best of my belief. Ask 
him who began it. He’ll tell you. Not that I should 
take any particular blame or shame for having begun it 
myself, but since that’s how you look at it, dear — why, I 
should like you to be satisfied. ” 

Do you think, Mr. Protheroe,” demanded Bertha, 
that it’s the way to win a girl’s esteem to brawl about her 
in public on a Sunday?” 

“ That’s what Thistlewood said,” Lane answered, with 
cunning simplicity. ‘‘ ‘ It’s unbecoming,’ said he, ‘ in a 
man to brawl over the maid he wants to marry.’ ” 

I was certain he would say so, and think so,” returned 
Bertha, with a sinking of the heart. She wanted grounds 
for pardoning Lane. 

‘‘ Well,” said Lane, with a retrospective air, “ we talked 


36 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


for awhile, and he was good enough to promise me a hiding 
if I didn^’t keep out of his way — meaning, of course, at your 
father’s house. I didn’t seem to take it quite so meekly as 
he thought I ought to, and by and by says he, ‘ You seem 
to be in a hurry for that hiding.’ So I just made answer 
tlfat hurry was no word for it, and then, the pair of us 
being keen set, we got to it. The day was an accident, and 
I dare say a piece of forgetfulness on both our sides. But 
you see, my dear, a man’s just as bound to guard his self- 
respect on a Sunday as on a week-day. ” 

“ I have been very deeply wounded,” said Bertha. “ I 
wished to respect you both, and now I can respect neither 
of you. Good-morning, Mr. Protheroe. ” 

Mr. Protheroe stood discomfited, and looked mournfully 
after her as she walked away. When she had disappeared 
round the bend of the road he sat down upon the bank and 
plucked grasses with mechanical fingers, turning the thing 
up and down in his mind for an hour or thereabouts. Sud- 
denly he jumped to his feet, and resumed his walk, smil- 
ing with head erect, and that mellow whistle of his rose on 
the air with jollity in every note of it, for it had broken, 
upon his mind like a sunshine to remember her first ex- 
clamation on seeing him. He was a young man who was 
in the habit of making sure of things, and he had never in 
his life been surer of anything than he felt about this. The 
name, the tone, the look, meant more than a common in- 
terest in him. She had called him Lane ” for the first 
time in his life. She had clasped her hands, and turned 
pale at- the sight of him. All this meant victory for his 
dearest hopes, and so he leaped to his feet, and marched off 
whistUng like the throstle. 


III. 

Bertha pursued her way along the tortuous bridle-path 
with thoughts which resembled the way she traveled. Like 
the road, her fancy seemed to turn back upon itself pretty 


BULLDOG AND BUTTEEFLY. 


sr 

often, and yet in the main it held in the same direction. 
Of course, fighting was a brutal business to a girFs way of 
thinking, but then, when she came really to think of it, 
men were strange creatures altogether, half terribly glo- 
rious and half-contemptible. Lane had endured all these 
injuries simply and merely because he loved her! She 
could have no conception of the possibilities of masculine 
joy in a fight for its own sake, or of the masculine sense of 
honor which compelled the meeting of a challenge half-way. 
Of course it was mightily unpleasant to be talked about 
as the heroine of such a business. The village tongues had 
been busy, and would never altogether stop wagging for the 
remainder of her lifetime. 

The influence of long years of respect for Thistlewood • 
seemed to turn her mental steps backward now and then. 
That so quiet and retired a man, and so little given to pro- 
claiming himself, should have made the most sacred wishes 
of his heart a matter of common gossip was understandable 
only on one hypothesis. His love and his despair carried 
him out of himself. That, of course, was a daring thing for 
any girl to think, but then Bertha was bound to find reasons. 

Mainly, her mind was occupied in the reconstruction of 
her previous belief about Lane Protheroe. He also, it 
would seem, had manly qualities in him— could stand up* 
to be beaten in the , cause of the woman he loved. The 
blows hurt her so, in the mere fancy of them, that she more 
than once put up her hands to her face to guard it. By 
the time she had accomplished her errand, and was on the 
way back to her father’s farm-house, she was all tender- 
ness, and forgiveness, and admiration for the newly re- 
vealed Lane; but then, as the fates would have it, just as 
she began to think of her cruelty to him, and of the terri- 
bly low spirits into which she must have thrown him, the 
familiar jocund whistle broke upon her ears, and when she 
stood still in a dreary amaze at this, she could hear the 
steps of the lover, who ought to have been altogether love- 


38 


BULLDOG AXD BUTTERFLY. 


lorn, marching along in something very like a dance in time 
to his own music. What was one to think of such a man? 
She was. back in a moment to her old opinion of him. No 
rooted feeling in him — no solidity — nothing to be sure of! ' 

She made haste home, and there shut herself in her own 
room and cried. Her mother walked upstairs, and 6nding 
the girl thus mournfully engaged sat down tranquilly be- 
side her and produced her knitting. The click of the 
needles had an effect of commonplace which helped to re- 
store Bertha to her self-possession, and in a little time her 
tears ceased, and moving to the window she stood there 
looking out upon the landscape. The monotonous click of 
the needles ceased, and she knew that her mother had laid 
down her work in her lap and W'as regarding her. She 
turned, with a ghost of a smile. 

“ YouTe thinking no doubt, as youT'e full o^ trouble, 
my wench,^^ began the mother, ‘‘ and it^s no manner o’ uso 
in talkin’ to young folks to try an’ mek’ out as a thing as 
pains don’t hurt. But if you can only bring ’em t’ under- 
stand as it won’t hurt much by and by you’ve done sum- 
mat for ’em, may be. What’s the trouble, wench? Come 
an’ tell thy mother.” 

“ It’s all over now, mother,” said Bertha. 

Not it,” returned Mrs. Fellowes, “ nor won’t be yet 
awhile. Beesn’t one as cries for nothing, like most gells. 
I was niver o’ that kind myself.” 

Bertha would not, perhaps could not, make a confidante 
even of her mother in this matter, but Mrs. Fellowes had a 
remarkable faculty for striking human averages, and she 
got near the truth in her guesses. 

“ There’s one thing fixed and sure, my dear,” she said, 
“ and that is as follows: Ayther you must find a mind to 
wed one of ’em, or you must pluck up a spirit and tell ’em 
you’ll wed nayther.” 

‘‘I have told Mr. Thistle wood that I can never marry 
liim,” said Bertha. 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


39 


“ And what about Lane?^^ her mother asked her. 

“ I can never marry him either/^ the girl answered, 
steadily. She had her voice under perfect control, but her 
averted face and the very lines of her figure enlightened 
the shrewd old mother. 

“ Hast told him so?^'’ she asked. 

“ I have told him,^^ Bertha answered, never to speak 
to me again. 

“ Hoity, toity, deary me cried the old woman. ‘‘ And 
what says he to that?’^ 

^‘Hedidn^t greatly seem to care,^ ^ said Bertha, with a 
beautifully assumed air of indifference. 

“ May be he didnH set such store by what you told him 
as to tek it in earnest?" 

“ Oh," said the girl, languidly and indifferently, ‘‘ he 
knew I meant it.^^ 

And didn^t seem to care? My dear, you^re talkin^ of 
Lane Protheroe!^^ 

“ He cared for a minute, perhaps,'’^ Bertha said, her as- 
sumed indifference and languor tinctured with bitterness by 
this time. “He cared for a minute, perhaps; just as he 
does about everything. I heard him whistling an hour 
afterward. 

The disguise was excellent, and might have deceived even 
a woman who had known her less intimately and watched 
her less closely, but it was transparent to the mother. 

“ That^s the trouble, is it:^^ said Mrs. Fellowes, gravely 
betaking herself once more to her knitting. Bertha had 
been crying already, and had hard work to restrain herself. 
“ Look here, my darlin%^^ the mother said, with unwonted 
tenderness of tone and manner, “if you can ■’t read your 
own mind, you must let a old experienced woman read it 
for you. The lad^s as the Lord made him. What we see 
in any o'’ the men to mek a fuss about, the Lord in His 
mercy only knows; but, to my mind. Lane’s the pick o’ ten 
thousand. He’s alive, and that’s more than be said of 


40 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


many on ^eni. He^s a clever lad, he^s well to look at, and 
lie well-to-do. ” 

‘‘ Mother,’^ cried the girl, almost passionately, her own 
pain wrung her so, he has no heart. He cares for a thing 
one minute, and doesn^t care for it the next. He pretends 
— no, he doesn^t pretend — but he thinks he cares, and while 
he thinks it I suppose he does care. But out of sight is 
out of mind with him.-’^ 

“ Makest most o^ tliine own troubles, like the rest on 
us,” said Mrs. Fellowes, philosophically. But, in a mo- 
ment, philosoj)hy made way for motherly kindness, and, 
rising from her seat, she bestowed her knitting in a roomy 
pocket and put her arms about her daughter's waist. 
‘‘ Art fond of the lad all the same,^^ she said. “ Ah, my 
dear, there’s nothin’ likely to be sorer than the natur as 
picks flies in the things it’s fond on. There’s a deal o’ 
laughin’ at them as thinks all their geese is swans, but 
they’re better off in the long run than them as teks all their 
swans to be geese.” 

Bertha said nothing, but she trembled a little under the 
caress, and her mother, observing this, released her, went 
back to her chair, and once more drew forth her knitting. 

“ I reckon,” she said, after a pause, ‘‘ as John Thistle- 
wood’s had the spoiling of thee. Thee’st got to think so 
much o’ them bull-dog ways of his’n, that nothin’ less’ll 
be of use to any man as comes a-courtin’. ’ ’ 

“ Don’t talk about it any more, mother,” said Bertha, 
with an air of weary want of interest. ‘‘ I have said good- 
bye to both of them. ” 

And there the interview ended. 


lY. 

It became evident that Bertha was likely to have a 
troublesome time before her. First of all came John 
Thistle wood, dogged and resolute as ever, propping himseK 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


41 


against the chimney-piece, flogging his gaitered legs with 
the switch he carried, and demanding Ay or No before his 
time. Bertha detern^ined to treat him with some spirit. 

“ You don^t need me to tell you that I respect you very 
highly, Mr. Thistlewood. But you oughtn^t to need me to 
answer your question any more. I shall be obliged if you 
will be so good as not to ask it again. 

‘‘ I shall ask it,^^ said the dogged John, ‘‘ till it comes 
to be answered one way or another. 

“ It has been answered almost often enough to my way 
of thinking, said Bertha. 

She had never been tart with Thistlewood until that mo- 
ment, but he manifested no surprise or emotion of any kind. 

“ It never has been answered, an^ never will be till I see 
thee married, whether to me or another. When that day 
come to pass you’ve heard the last of my question.” 

Thus the dogged John, and he being disposed of for 
awhile, came Lane. To him the persecuted maid was a 
little less severe than she had been, but she was inexorable. 

‘‘ If you like to come here as a friend, Mr. Protheroe, in 
a few months’ time, I dare say we shall all be very glad to 
see you. ” 

“ Well,” said Lane, with flne irrelevance, “ as an enemy 
this is a house I shall never make a call at. But look at 
the matter for a minute, my darling — 

‘‘ You must not talk to me like that, Mr. Protheroe,” 
Bertha said, with great coldness. 

“ Like what, my dear?” asked the ingenious Lane. 

“ Like that, Mr. Protheroe,” replied Bertha. 

I think it so often, that I’m afraid I’m bound to say it 
sometimes; but, if it offends, I hope you’ll forgive me. 
You know you are my darling, don’t you? You know 
there isn’t a queen in the world I’d even with you if every 
hair of her head was hung with Koh-i-noors. ‘ Out of the 
fullness of the mouth the heart speaketh,’ the Wise Man 
says. So, if I do let slip ‘ my dear,’ or ‘ my darling,’ now 


42 


BULLDOG AND - BUTTERFLY. 


and then, you^ll know it^s accident, and you won^t take 
offense at it — will your^"’ 

This was agile, but unsatisfactory. 

“ Please understand me, Mr. Protheroe,"" said Bertha, 
with rural dignity; “ you must not come here again until 
you can come merely as a friend.’^ 

‘‘ Bertha r You canT mean it! What have I done? 
What has changed you?^^ 

‘‘Mr. Protheroe!^’— the rural dignity made an insulted 
goddess of her to Lane’s fancy — “ what right have you to 
say that I have changed?” 

“ Why, Bertha,” he said, meekly and strickenly, 
“ wasn’t I to come in six months’ time and get an an- 
swer?” 

“ Will you oblige me by coming for your answer in six 
months’ time?” answered Bertha. “ Good-afternoon, Mr. 
Protheroe.” 

Bertha thought herself more cruel to herself than to him. 

She knew how infinitely more cruel she was to Thistle- 
wood, but that was not a thing to be- avoided. She and he 
alike must suffer — she in giving pain, and he in bearing it. 
Bertha’s heart ached over Lane, and the bitterness of it was 
to know that in a week or two the butterfly nature would 
have ceased to care. He was hotly in love to-day, no 
doubt, but he would be out of love to-morrow, may be, 
and in a month or two hotly in love again elsewhere. 

On the Sunday following these interviews dogged John 
was at church, and the butterfly Protheroe also. Thistle- 
wood looked as he always looked, rudely healthy, and a 
masterpiece of masterfulness and sullen perseverance and 
resolve. Lane was pallid and miserable, and Bertha re- 
marking him was compelled to fall back on the bitter con- 
solation of her former thoughts. He would take it heavily 
for a day or two, and would then forget all about it. He 
cast a glance or two in Bertha’s direction, and liis eyes were 
full of melancholy appeal. But for her certainty he would 


bulldog and butterfly. 


43 


have moved her, for she was predisposed to be moved, and 
she had hardly expected to have had so much effect upon 
him. He walked dejectedly out of church at the close of 
the service, and Thistlewood half by accident shouldered 
him. He took it meekly, and made no sign. 

Two or three days later came a piece of news of the sort 
Bertha had expected. Mr. Protheroe was heard of as hav- 
ing made one of a picnic-party in the neighborhood of Hey- 
don Hey, and of this party he was said to have been the 
life and soul. He was reported to have paid marked atten- 
tions to Miss Badger, daughter of a wealthy cheesemonger 
in Castle Barfield High Street. The young lady was 
rumored to be possessed of great personal attractions, and 
a pretty penny, present and prospective. 

Foreseen as it was, the news stung a little when it came. 
Even the most butterfly-like of lovers might have waited a 
little longer! 

And yet next Sunday, when Bertha went to church, quite 
resolved not to waste so much as a glance upon him, he 
looked paler and more dejected than he had done a week 
ago. She looked in spite of herself — she must needs look 
at him — and it was evident that as yet the cheesemonger's 
daughter had found no way to cheer him. Thistlewood 
never altered. Those strong, self-contained natures have a 
power upon themselves as they have on other people. He 
could last for years in solid and complete devotion — he 
could apparently wait forever — and could yet hide from the 
eyes of the outer world the steady fires which burned within 
him. That butterfly nature of poor Lane’s forced Thistle- 
wood’s virtues into prominence b}^ contrast, and the girl 
had them almost constantly in her thoughts. There was 
nothing— she told herself remorsefully— that this typical 
piece of solidity and devotion would not do for her. Eler 
faith in his attachment transcended bounds, and she felt it 
to be a thousand pities that she could not love him. 

It does not happen in every life-liistory that this sort of 


44 


BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY. 


profound feeling finds an opportunity of proof, but in the 
story of the lives of John Thistlewood and Lane Protheroe 
this thing came to pass in such wise that he who ran might 
read the natures of the men, and know them once for all. 

Bull-dog John had gone on doggedly courting, and but- 
terfly Lane had taken to seeing too much convivial com- 
pany in Heydon Hey and Oastle Barfield, and there was a 
fear in Bertha’s mind that if her influence had not been 
permanent, it had at least started the young man on a track 
likely to prove disastrous. These emotional people, quick 
to feel and quick to forget, are hardly to be dealt with with- 
out danger. 

Lane’s dissipations must have been graver than even 
rumor gave them discredit for being. His midnight jun- 
ketings had made a ghost of him, and to see him at any 
moment when he thought himself unobserved, was to won- 
der how long such a mournful and broken young gentleman 
could possibly rouse himself to fill the part of king even in 
a rustic Bohemia. 

Autumn was on the land. The corn-shocks were stand- 
ing in the stubbled fields, and the night air was full of 
gossamer, which twined itself about the faces of all way- 
farers. Eural work had gone on merrily all day, and when 
the sun set silence fell, and darkness like a warm shroud. 
Lights flickered awhile in the village and the farm-house, 
and then went out one by one. The moon stole over the 
Beacon Hill, and looked mildly across the valley. 

There was not a breath of air stirring, and not a sound 
upon the night except for the placid and continual gurgle 
of the stream which had no voice at all by day. Yes. One 
other sound there was, a sound as of some one moving un- 
easily in a creaking chair. Creak, creak, creak. It grew 
momently. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Still it grew. A 
tongue like the tongue of a snake — so light and fine and 
swift was it — flashed out of a crevice, and flew back again, 
flashed out again, and again withdrew. Then the snake’s 


BULLDOG AXD BUTTERFLY. 


45 


body flashed out after it^ and melted on the moonlit air. 
Another, and another, and another. Then a low roaring 
noise, and all the windows of the basement shone out ruby- 
colored, and the moon looked bleared by contrast. 

A distant voice from the village called out ‘‘Fire!” 
There was a crash of opening windows, a tumult of clap- 
ping doors, a storm of barking dogs, excited voices, hurry- 
ing feet. 

Old and young, male and female, robed anyhow, ran 
hard toward the farm-house, and poured in a thunderous 
stream across the echoing wooden bridge which spanned the 
river. The farm-house was a tower of flame, fantastic 
turrets springing here and there, the dry timbers, centuries 
old, made the best of food for fire, and the place flamed 
like a tar-barrel. The screams of doomed horses came with 
hideous uproar from the stables in the rear. 

The farmer and his wife, the men-servants and the maid- 
servants were in the garden, all pale with fear and helpless; 
but the mother tore the night with calling on her daugh- 
ter's name. 

Bull-dog John and his rival came last of all, though they 
ran like hounds, and they crossed the bridge and dashed 
through the crowd together. 

“ Oh, John, " cried the agonized mother, clutching at 
him as though he were an ark of safety. “ You'll save 
her — won't you? God help her! You'll save her— won't • 
you, John?" 

One figure, black as night against the fierce glow of the 
flame, dashed across the space between the crowd and the 
farm-house. It was hardly seen, and scarce believed in by 
those who thought they saw. 

“ John," cried the wretched mother; “you'll save her! 
You as loved her so! You'll save her!" 

There is no manhood in the world that needs to be 
ashamed to hang back from an enterprise so hopeless and 


46 


BULLDOG AKD BUTTERFLY. 


SO terrible. The woman shrieked and prayed — ihe man 
stood motionless with white face and staring eyes. 

Then came one wild cry from half a dozen throats at 
once, and next upleaped a roar that struck the noise of the 
fire out of being for an instant. For the figure, black 
against the fiery glow, was back again, by some such 
stupendous chance, or heaven-wrought miracle, as only 
desperate valor ever wins. A figure huddled in a blanket 
lay in his arms, and as he came racing toward the crowd 
they fell together. They were lifted, and borne out of the 
circle of fierce heat and flying sparks. 

The house was left to burn, and every thought was^cen- 
tered on the rescuer and the rescued. The fresh air roused 
Bertha from her swoon, and at the first opening of her eyes 
and the first words she spoke the mother went as mad with 
joy as she had been with terror. 

‘‘‘Alive! — alive! Safe! — safe I And oh, my God! my 
Christian friends, it was the Butterfly as did it!^^ 

But it was a full month later when Lane Protheroe asked 
his first question, 

“ Where'S Bertha?’^ 

“ Hush! my dear, dear darlin^,^^ said Mrs. Fellowes, her 
eyes brimful of tears. “ Lie quiet, there^s a dear.-’^ 

“ Where’s Bertha?” 

“ Safe an’ well, love; safe and well.” 

“I’m thirsty,” said the Butterfly. 

He was supplied with a cooling drink, and fell to sleep 
smiling, with unchanged posture. In half a dozen hours 
he woke again. 

“ Where’s Bertha?” 

“ Here, dearest.” 

And we leave them hand in hand, yearning on each other 
through their blissful tears. 


THE EHD. 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


1 . 

Ik the year 1820, and for many years before and after, 
Abel Eeddy farmed his own land at Perry Hall End, on 
the western boundaries of Castle Barfield. He lived at 
Perry Hall, a ripe-colored old tenement of Elizabethan de- 
sign, which crowned a gentle eminence and looked out pict- 
uresquely on all sides from amongst its neighboring trees. 
It had a sturdier aspect in its age than it could have worn 
when younger, for its strength had the sign-manual of 
time upon it, and even its hoary lichens looked as much 
like a prophecy as a record. 

A mile away, but also within the boundaries of Castle 
Barfield parish, there stood another house upon another 
eminence: a house of older date than Perry Hall, though 
of less pleasing and picturesque an air. The long low 
building was of a darkish stone, and had been altered and 
added to so often that it had at last arrived at a complex 
ugliness which was not altogether displeasing. The 
materials for its structure had all been drawn at different 
- periods from the same stone quarry, and the checkered look 
of new bits and old bits had a hint of the chess-board. 
Here Samson Mountain dwelt on his own land in the midst 
of his own people. 

The Mountain Farm, as it was called, and had been 
called time out of mind, was separated from the Perry Hall 
Farm by a very shallow and narrow brook. The two 
houses were built as far apart from each other as they 

( 47 ) 


48 JULIA AKD HEE EOMEO. 

could be, whilst remaining in their own boundaries, as if 
the builder of the later one had determined to set as great 
a distance as he could between his neighbor and himself. 
And as a matter of fact the Reddy s and the Mountains 
were a sort of Capulets and Montagus, and had hated each 
other for generations. Samson and Abel kept up the 
ancient grudge in all its ancient force. They were of the 
same age within a week or two, had studied at the same- 
school, and had fought there; had at one time courted the 
same girl, had sat within sight of each other Sunday after 
Sunday and year after 3^ear in the parish church, had each 
buried father and mother in the parish church-yard, and 
in the mind of each the thought of the other rankled like 
a sore. 

The manner of their surrendering their common court- 
ship was characteristic of their common hati-ed. Some- 
w^here about the beginning of this century a certain Miss 
Jennie Rusker, of Castle Barfield, was surrounded by quite 
a swarm of lovers. She was pretty, she was well-to-do, for 
her time and station, she was accomplished — playing the 
harp (execrably), working samplers in silk and wool with 
great diligence and exactitude, and having read a prodig- 
ious number of plays, poems, and romances. What this 
lady’s heart forged that her mouth did vent, but no pretty 
young woman ever looked or sounded foolish to the eyes or 
ears of her lovers. Mountain and Reddy were among her 
solicitors. She liked them both, and had not quite made 
up her mind as to which, if either of them, she would 
choose, when suddenly the knowledge of the other’s occa- 
sional presence in her sitting-room made the house odious, 
to each, and they surrendered the chase almost at the same 
hour. Miss Jennie satisfied herself with a cousin -of her 
own, married without changing her name, had children,, 
was passably happy, as the world goes, and lived to be a 
profoundly sentimental but inveterate widow. Mountain 
and Reddy married girls they would not otherwise have 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


49 


chosen, and were passably happy also, except when the 
sore of ancient hatred was inflamed by a chance meeting 
on the corn exchange or an accidental passage of the eyes 
at church. They had no better authority for hating each 
other than that their fathers had hated each other before 
them. The fathers had the authority of the grandfathers, 
and they, that of the great-grandfathers. 

It was Saturday afternoon. There was a bleak frost 
abroad, and even the waters of the brook which divided the 
two farms were hard frozen. The sun hung low in the 
western sky, lusterless as a wafer, but ruddy. The flelds 
were powdered with thin snow, and the earth was black by 
contrast with it. Xow and then a shot sounded far away, 
but clear and sharp, from where the guests of my lord of 
Barfleld were killing time in the warren. 

A laboring-man, smock-f rocked, billy-cock, gaitered, 
and hobnailed, was clamping down the frozen lane, the 
earth ringing like iron under iron as he walked. By his 
side was a fair-haired lad of nine or ten years of age, a boy 
of frank and engaging countenance, carefully and even 
daintily dressed, and holding up his head as if he were a 
lord of the soil and knew it. The boy and the laborer were 
talking, and on the frosty silence of the flelds the clear 
treble of the boy’s speech rang out clearly and carried far. 
A burly man, with a surly red face, who had stooped to 
button a gaiter, in a meadow just beyond the brook, and 
had laid down his gun beside him the while, heard both 
voice and words whilst the speaker was a hundred yards 
away. 

‘‘ But don’t you think it’s very wicked, Ichabod?” 

The laborer’s voice only reached the listener in the 
meadow. He spoke with the Barfield drawl, and his feat- 
ures, which were stiffened by the frozen wind, were twisted 
into a look of habitual waggery. 

''Well,” said he, in answer to his young companion^ 


so 


JULIA AND HEE EOMEO. 


may be, Master Richard, it might be wicked, but it^s 
main like natur/^ 

I shahi^t hate Joe Mountain when I’m a man,” said 
the boy. 

'The surly man in the field, hearing these words, looked 
on a sudden surlier still, and throwing up his head with a 
listening air, and holding his ankle with both hands, 
crouched and craned his neck to listen. 

‘‘ May’st have to change thy mind. Master Richard,” said 
the laborer. 

Why should I change my mind, Ichabodr” asked the 
boy, looking up at him. 

‘‘ Why,” answered Ichabod, “ thee’lt niver have it said 
as thee wast afraid of any o’ the Mountain lot. ” 

“I’m not afraid of him,’^ piped the engaging young 
cockerel. “We had a fight in the coppice last holidays, 
and I beat him. The squire caught us, and we were going 
to stop, but he made us go on, and he saw fair. Then he 
made us shake hands after. Joe Mountain wouldn’t say 
he’d had enough, but the squire threw up the sponge for 
him. And he gave us two half-crowns apiece, and said we 
were both good-plucked uns.” 

“ Ah!” said Ichabod, with warmth, “he’s the right sort, 
is the squire. And there’s no sort or kind o’ sport as comes 
amiss to him. A gentleman after my own heart.” 

“ He made us shake hands and promise we’d be 
friends,” said Master Richard, “ and we’re going to be.” 

“ Make him turn the brook back first. Master Richard,” 
said Ichabod. The two were almost at the bridge by this 
time, and the listener could hear distinctly. 

“ Turn the brook back?” the boy asked. “ What do 
you mean, Ichabod?” 

“ Ax thy feyther, when thee gettest home,” answered 
Ichabod. “ He’ll tell thee all the rights on it. So fur as 
I can make out — and it was the talk o’ the country i’ my 


JUMA AKD HER ROMEO. 


51 


granclfey therms daysen — it amoants to this. Look here!"^ 
He and the boy arrested their steps on the bridge, and 
Ichabod pointed along the frozen track of the brook. 
“ Seest that hollow ten rods off? It was in the time o^ 
Cromwell. Hast heard tell o^ Cromwell, I mek no 
doubt?^^ 

‘‘ Oliver Cromwell, said Master Eichard. “ He was 
Lord Protector of England. He fought King Charles. 

Like enough,'’^ said Ichabod. In his daysen, many 
•^ears ago, there was the Eeddys. here and the Mountains 
there — indicating either house in turn by pointing with 
his thumb — “ just as they be now. The Eeddy o’ that 
day — he was thy grandfeyther’s grandfeyther as like as nob 
— may be he was his grandfeyther for aught as I can tell, 
for it’s a deadly dreadful heap o’ time long past — the Eeddy 
o’ that day went to the wars, and fowt for Cromwell. The 
Mountain o’ that time stopped at hum. Up to then they’d 
niver been misfriended as fur as I know. That’s how it’s 
put about, any way. But whilst the Eeddy was away, 
what’s the Mountain do?” 

The boy was looking at Ichabod, and Ichabod, stooping 
a little to be the more impressive, was looking at him. 
The surly faced man with the gun had hitherto been con- 
cealed by the hedge beside which he had knelt to fasten his 
gaiter, and neither of the two had suspected his presence. 
It was natural, therefore, that both of them should start a 
little when his voice reached them. 

‘‘ Well?” The voice was sour and surly, like the face, 
and the word was rapped out sharp and clear. Master 
Eichard and Ichabod turned with one accord. ‘‘ Well,” 
said the surly man, ‘‘ what does the Mountain do?” 

Ichabod, less discomfited by the suddenness of the inter- 
ruption than might have been expected of him, rubbed the 
frozen base of his nose with a cold forefinger and grinned. 
Master Eichard looked from one to the other with a frank 
and fearless interest and inquiry which became him very 




JULIA AND HEK ROMEO. 


prettily. The surly man bestowed a passing scowl ujion 
him, and turned his angry regard again upon Ichabod. 

‘‘ Come, now/^ he said, “ you backbiting, scandal-mon- 
gering old liar! What does the Mountain do.^ Out with 
it!’’ 

‘‘ Why, nayther thee nor me was there at the time, 
gaffer,” responded Ichabod, his frosty features still creased 
with a grin. So nayther thee nor me can talk for cer- 
tain. Can usr” 

“ I suppose,” said the surly, burly man, ‘‘ you’re going 
to stuff that young monkey with the old lie about the 
stream being turned?” 

Ichabod made no verbal response, but continued to rub 
his nose with his forefinger, and to grin with an aspect of 
uncertain humor. The surly man stooped for his gun, 
threw it over his arm, and stared at Ichabod and his young 
oornpanion with eyes of hatred and disdain. Then, having 
somewhat relieved his feelings by a curse or two, he turned 
his back and went off with a long, heavy, dogged-looking 
stride, his feet crunching noisily through the frosty grasses. 

“It eeat for me to talk about my betters, and them as 
the Lord has put in authority over us,” said Ichabod, with 
an expression which belied these words of humility; “but 
I put it to thee. Master Richard. Dost think that old 
Mountain theer looks like a likeable un? No, no. Might 
as well expect cat an’ dog t’ agree as Reddy and Mount- 
ain.” 

j This speech was made in a carefully modulated tone, 
^ ,when he and the boy were at some distance from the surly 
man, who w^as still visible, three or four fields away. 

“ What was it about the brook, Ichabod?” asked Master 
Richard. 

“ Why;” said Ichabod, “ when that old longaway grand- 
fey ther o’ thine was away a-fighting for Cromwell, ’tis said 
his neighbor turned the brook so as to bring in four-score 
acres o’ land as ud niver have been his by right. The Reddy 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


53 


that day died in the wars, and his widder could mek no 
head again the Mountain lot; but her taught her son to 
hate ^em and look down upon "’em, and hated an' looked 
down upon is the name on 'em from that day to this." 

But Joe Mountain didn't do it," said Master Richard. 

‘‘No, no," assented Ichabod. “But it's i' this way. 
It's i' the blood. What's bred i' the bone will come out 
i' the flesh. Afore thee makest friends with young Joe 
Mountain, Master Richard, thee ax thy feyther." 

Master Richard, lapsing into silence, thought things 
over. 

“ Ichabod," he said at last, “ is a boy bound to be bad 
if he has a bad grandfather?" 

“ Sure!" said Ichabod, who was not going to be worsted 
in argument for want of corroborative fact if he could 
help it. 

Master Richard thought things over a little while longer, 
and returned to the charge. 

“ Suppose the boy with the bad grandfather had a good 
grandmother, Ichabod?" 

“ None of the Mountain lot ever had," Ichabod replied. 
There was no item in Ichabod's creed more fixed than this 
— the Mountains of Mountain Farm were hateful and con- 
temptible. He had imbibed the belief with his mother's 
milk and his father's counsel. His grandfather had known 
it for the one cardinal certainty of nature. 

J ust as the serving-men of Capulet hated the serving- 
men of Montagu, so the oldest servants of the Mountains 
hated the older servants of the Reddys. The men made 
the masters' quarrel their own. There was a feudal spirit 
in the matter, and half the fights of this outlying district 
of the parish were provoked by that ancient history of the 
brook. At this time of day it mattered very little indeed 
if the history was true or false, for neither proof nor dis- 
proof was possible, and the real mischief was done past 
remedy in any case. 


54 


JULIA AOT HER ROMEO. 


‘‘ Are you sure our side fought for Cromwell, Ichabodr^^ 
Master Richard asked, after another long and thoughtful 
silence. 

“ To be sure,^^ said Ichabod. 

I donH think it can be true, then, about the brook, 
said the boy, “ because Cromwell won, and everybody who 
was on his side had their own way. Mr. Greenfell teaches 
history at school, and he says so.'’^ 

This was nothing to Ichabod, whose intellect was not 
constructed for the reception of historical jcvidences. 

“ Then ax thy fey the r. Master Richard,^ Mie answered; 
“ he^ll tell thee the rights on it.'^^ 

The boy walked on pondering, as children of his age will 
do. The seniors would be surprised pretty often if they 
could guess how deep and far the young thoughts go, but, 
then, the seniors have forgotten their own young days, or 
were never of a thinking habit. Ichabod clamped along 
with his mind on beer. The boy thought his own 
thoughts, and each was indifferent for awhile to outer signs 
and sounds. But suddenly a little girl ran round a corner 
of the devious lane with a brace of young savages in pur- 
suit. The youthful savages had each an armful of snow- 
balls, and they were pelting the child with more animus 
than seemed befitting. The very tightness with which the 
balls were pressed seemed to say that they were bent less 
on sport than mischief, and they came whooping and danc- 
ing round the corner with such rejoicing cruelty as only 
boys or uncivilized men can feel. The little girl was sob- 
bing, half in distress, and half because of the haste she had 
made, and Master Richard’s juvenile soul burned within 
him at the sight like that of a knight-errant. He had 
read a great deal about knights-errant for the time which 
had been •as yet allowed him for the pursuit of literature, 
and he was by nature a boy of much fire and gentleness, 
and a very sympathetic imagination. So the big heart in 
the small body swelled with pity and grew hot with valor. 


JULIA AKD HEE ROMEO. 


55 


and, without parley, he smote the foremost boy, who hap- 
pened to be the bigger of the two, and went headlong into 
hght with him. 

Ichabod followed the young master^s lead without know- 
ing, or in the smallest degree caring, why, and tried to 
seize the smaller savage, who skillfully evaded him and 
ran. The little maiden stood and trembled with clasped 
hands as she looked upon the fray. Ichabod lifted his 
smock-frock to get his hands into tlie pockets of his cor- 
duroys, and watched with the air of an old artist standing 
behind a young one. 

‘‘ You shouldnT work at it so much. Master Richard,^ ^ 
said Ichabod. Tek it easier, and wait for him. That's 
it!" 

The combat was brief and decisive. The youthful sav- 
age carried the heavier metal, but he was slow with it; 
but suddenly, as if to show that he was not altogether with- 
out* activity, he turned and ran his hardest. Master 
Richard, with blue-gray eyes still glistening and hands still 
clinched in the ardor of battle, turned upon the little girl, 
who was some two years- younger than himself. At the 
sight of her he turned shy and blushed, and the little girl 
turned shy and blushed also. She looked at the ground, 
and then she looked at Richard, and chen she looked at 
the ground again. She was slender and delicate, and had 
very beautiful soft brown eyes, and the hero of a minute 
back was abashed before her. 

‘‘ You'm a Mountain, bain't your” said Ichabod, looking 
at her with disfavor. She looked shyly at him, but did 
not answer. “ What's your name?” he asked, stooping 
toward her. 

Julia Mountain,” said the child, in a trembling treble. 

‘‘Ah!" said Ichabod, “I thought so. Come along. 
Master Richard, or else we shall niver get hum again afore 
dark. ” 

Master Richard walked away with backward glances shyly 


56 


JULIA AND HEE ROMEO. 


directed at the little girl, and the little girl stood with her 
cheek inclining to her shoulder, and the shoulder drawn 
up a little, as if to shelter her, and looked after him. This 
exchange went on until Ichabod and the boy had turned 
the corner of the lane, when Miss J ulia Mountain ran home 
as fast as her small legs would take her, and Master 
Richard Reddy, with a vision in his mind, walked alongside 
his companion. 

You should tek a lesson or two. Master Richard,^ ^ said 
Ichabod, and then theeMst do a heap better. I^m rusty 
nowadaysen, but I used to love it when I was a young un.^^ 
Master Richard heard nothing of this or of the advice 
which followed it. He enacted many times over the small 
adventure of the last five minutes, and at the end of every 
mental history he traced the little figure stood in the lane 
looking shyly at him over one shoulder as he turned the 
corner. 


II. 

Samson Mountain went home in an ill-temper, and, as 
was usual with him when in that condition, did everything 
he had to do with a sulky and noisy emphasis, bursting 
open doors with unnecessary violence, slamming them with 
needless force behind him, and clamping heavily from room 
to room. His wife, who was submissive at the surface, but 
unconquerable at bottom, knew these signs, and accepted 
them with outer show of meekness. Samson tramped into 
the sitting-room, and there found his wife alone. He fiung 
to the door behind him with a crash which would have been 
startling if it had been unexpected, and fell heavily into a 
roomy arm-chair by the fireside. Mrs. Mountain took no 
notice of this, but went on placidly with her sewing. Sam- 
son threw his heavily booted feet noisily into the fender, 
and still Mrs. Mountain went on placidly, without so much 
as looking at him. Stung by this disregard of his obvious 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 57 

ill-humor, Samson made a lunge with his foot at the fire- 
irons and brought them down with a bang. 

‘‘ Lawkadaisy me, Samson, said his wife, mildly. 

Whak’s the matter with the man?^^ 

Matter!’^ growled Samson. “ It’s a thing as ’ud get 
a saint to set his backup. I was down i’ the bridge leasowe 
bare an hour ago, and who should I see but that young imp 
■of a Keddy along wi’ that old viper of a Bubb. Thee 
know’st the chap — that Ichabod.” 

‘‘ I know him, Samson,” answered Mrs. Mountain, 
y He’s the most impudent of all of ’em. ” 

“They stood atop o’ the bridge,” pursued Samson, 

and I could hear ’em talkin’. • Th’ode rip was tellin’ 
the young un that outworn lie about the brook. I’d got a 
shot i’ the barrel, and I’d more than half a mind to ha’ 
peppered him. I’d ha’ done it if it had been worth 
while.” . 

“ There’s no end to 'their malice and onchari tableness,” 
said Mrs. Mountain. 

“ I heard the young imp say he’d fowt our Joe and licked 
him,” pursued Samson. “If ever it should come to my 
knowledge as a truth I’d put Master Joe in such fettle he 
wouldn’t sit down for the best side a month o’ Sundays.” 

“ They’s giving the child such airs,” said his wife, “ it’s 
-enough to turn the bread o’ life which nourishes.” 

Mrs. Mountain had an object in view,, and, after her own 
fashion, had held it long in view in silence. The moment 
.seemed to her propitious, and she determined to approach 
it. 

“ Young toad!” said Samson, rising to kick at the coals 
with his heavy-heeled boot, and plunging backward into 
the chair again. 

“ To hear him talk — that fine an’ mincin’ — you’d think 
he was one o’ my lord’s grandchildren or a son o’ the 
squire’s at least,” said Mrs. Mountain, approaching her 
theme with circuitous caution. 


58 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


Ajl” Samson assented, “It's enough to turn your 
stomach to listen to him. " 

“ If they go on as they're going," pursued his wife, cir- 
cling a little nearer, “ we shall live to see fine things." 

“ We shall, indeed," said Samson, a little mollified to 
find his wife so unusually warm in the quarrel. “ There'a 
no such a thing as contentment to be found amongst 'em. 
They settle up to be looked upon as gentlefolks." 

“ Yes; fine things we shall live to see, no doubt, if wo 
don't tek care. But thanks be, Samson, it's left in our 
own hands. " ^ 

“ What be'st hoverin' at?" demanded Samson, turning 
upon her with his surly red face. 

“ Things ain't what they used to be when you an' me 
was younger," said Mrs. Mountain. “ The plain ode-fash- 
ioned Barfield talk as you and me was bred up to, Samson, 
ain't good enough nowadays for the very kitchen, wenches 
and the laborers on the farm. Everybody's gettin' that 
new-fangled!" 

“ Barfield's good enough for me, and good enough for 
mine," said Samson, with sulky wrath. 

“ It's good enough for we, to be sure, but whether it's 
good enough for ourn is another churnin' o' butter alto- 
gether," his wife answered. “ It ud seem as if ivery gen- 
eration talked different from one another. My mother, as 
was a very well-spoken woman for her day, used to call a 
cup o' tay a dish o' tay, and that's a thing as only the 
very ignorant ud stoop to nowadays." Samson growled, 
and wallowed discontentedly in the big arm-chair. “ A 
mother's got her natural feelings, Samson," Mrs. Mount- 
ain continued, with an air and tone of mildest resigna- 
tion. “ I don't scruple to allow as it'll hurt me if I should 
live to see our Joe looked down upon by a Reddy." 

“Looked down upon!" cried Samson. “Where's the 
Reddy as can count acre for acre agen us, or guinea for 
guinea?" 


JULIA AKD HEE ROMEO. 


59 


The Reddys is fairly well to do, Samson, said Mrs. 
Mountain; “ very nigh as well to do as we be.'’^ 

‘‘ Pooh I returned Samson. 

‘‘ Oh, but they be, though, his wife insisted. “ Pretty 
near. There^’s nothing so much between us asM prevent 
"’em from taking airs with us if they could find out any- 
thing to do it for. 

If they could Samson assented. ‘‘ Abel Reddy was 
a bragger and a boaster from his cradle days.^^ 

“ That’s where it is,” cried Mrs. Mountain, in a tone 
which implied that Samson had made a discovery of the 
first importance, and that this discovery unexpectedly con- 
firmed her own argument. “ Let ’em have the least little 
bit of a chance for ja. brag, and where be you?” 

‘‘You might trust ’em to tek advantage on it if they 
had it, ” said her husband. 

“ Of course you might,” said she, with warmth, “ and 
that’s why I’m fearful on it.” 

“ Fearful o’ what?” demanded Samson. 

■“ O’ these here scornful fine-gentlemen waj^s as’ll be a 
thorn in our Joe’s side as long as he lives, poor little chap, 
unless we put him in the way to combat again ’em.” 

“ Ah!” Samson growled, suddenly enlightened. “ I see 
now what thee beest drivin’ at. Now, you tek a straight 
sayin’ from me, Mary x\nn. I’ll have no fine-mouthed, 
false-natur’d corruption i’ my household. I| the Reddy s 
choose to breed up that young imp of theirn to drawl fine 
and to talk smooth above his station — let ’em. ’ ’ 

“Well, Samson,” returned Mrs. Mountain, who knew 
by long experience when her husband was malleable, “ you 
know best, and you’re the master here, as it’s on’y fit and 
becomin’ an’ in the rightful nature o’ things as you should 
be.” 

The first effect of the oil of fiattery seemed to be to 
harden him. 

“I be, and I mean to be,” he answered, with added 


60 


JULIA AKD HEE llOMEO. 


surliness. “ If the speech and the clothes and the vittles' 
as have been good enough for me ain^’t good enough for 
any young upstart as may follow after me, it is a pity. 

Mary Ann kept silence and looked meek. . Samson 
growled and bullied a little, and wore the airs of a dictator. 
By and by a serving-maid came in and began to arrange 
the table for tea, and a little later a boy and a girl stole 
noiselessly into the room. 

“ Joe,” said Samson, sternly, “ come here!^^ The boy 
approached him with evident dread. “ What^s this I hear 
about thee and that young villiii of a Reddy?’ ^ 

“ I don’t know, father,” the boy answered. 

“ I heard him makin’ a boast this afternoon, f’ said Sam- 
son, rolling bullyingly in his arm-chair, “ as you and him 
had fowt last holidays, and as he gi’en you a hiding.” 

Joe said nothing, but looked as if he expected the exper- 
ience to be repeated. 

“ Now, what ha’ you got to say to that?” demanded his 
father. 

“ Why,” began Joe, edging back a little, he’s bigger 
nor I be, an’ six months o’der.” 

Do you mean to tell me,” cried Samson, reaching out 
a hand and seizing the little fellow by the jacket, “ do you 
mean to tell me as you allowed to have enough to that 
young villin?” 

No,” ^oe protested. That I niver aid. It was the 
squire as parted us. ” 

‘‘You remember this,” said his father, shaking him ta 
emphasize the promise. “ If ever you agree to tek a hid- 
ing from a Reddy you’ve got one to follow on from me. 
D’ye hear?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Tek heed as well as hear. D’ye hear?^’ 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ And here’s another thing, mind you. It’s brought ta 
me as you and him shook hands and took on to be friends 


JULIA Al^D HER ROMEO. 


61 


with one another. Is that trew?^’ Joe looked guilty, but 
made no answer. “Is it trew?^^ Still Joe returned na 
answer, and his father changing the hand with which lift 
held him, for his own greater convenience, knocked him 
off his feet, restored him to his balance, knocked him off 
his feet again, and again settled him. “ Now,^’ said Sam- 
son, “ is it trew?"' 

The boy tried to recoil from the uplifted threatening 
hand, and cried out “ No!'^ 

“ Now,'’ ^ said Samson, rising with a grim satisfaction, 
“ that^s a lie. There^s nothin^ i^ thewwld as I abhor from 
like a lie. I’ll teach thee to tell me lies. Goo into the 
brewus and tek thy shirt off. March!” 

The little girl clung to her mother’s skirts crying and 
trembling. The mother herself was trembling, and had 
turned pale. 

“ Hush, hush, my pretty,” she said, caressing the child, 
and averting her eyes from Joe. 

“ March!” said Samson, and Joe slunk out of the room, 
hardening his heart as well as might be for endurance. But 
when he was once out of sight of the huge bullying figure 
and threatening eye and hand, the sight of his cap lying 
upon a chair in the hall supplied him with an inspiration* 
He seized the cap, slipped out at the front door, and ran.' 

The early winter night was falling fast by this time. 
Half a dozen stars twinkled intermittently in the black-blue 
waste of sky, and when the lad paused to listen for possible 
sounds of pursuit the hollow moaning of the wind and the 
clang of bare wintery poles mingled with the noise of his 
own suppressed breathing. 

The runaway fancied himself bound (as all British run- 
away boys seem bound) for sea, and he set out without delay 
to walk to Liverpool. He got as far as the brook which 
formed the limit to his father’s farm, and lingering before 
he set foot upon the bridge, began to cry a little, and to 


62 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


bemoan his chances and the dear ones left behind. His 
father came in for none of Joe^s regrets. It was in the 
nature of things to the boy^’s mind that his father should 
administer to him periodical thrashings, whether he had 
earned them or not. It was the one social relationship 
which existed between them. It was only quite of late that 
Joe had begun to discern injustice in his father^s bullyings. 
Ohildren take things as they come, and to the mind of a 
child — in a modified sense, of course — whatever is, is right. 
That a thing exists is its own be3t justification. There is 
no reason to seek reasons for it. But Joe Mountain, having 
nearly outgrown this state of juvenile acquiescence, had 
begun to make inquiry of himself, and, as a result, had 
familiarized himself with many mental pictures in which 
hevfigu”' I as an adventurer rich in adventures. In his day 
y^er'^samh of England were less instructed than they are 
Ace , but the immortal Defoe existed, and Lemuel Gulliver 
was as real as he is to-day. Perhaps the Board schools may 
have made that great mariner a little less real than he used 
to be. Joe believed in him with all his heart, had never 
had the shadow of a doubt about him, and meant to sail 
straight from Liverpool to Lilliput. He would defer his 
voyage to Brobdingnagia until he had grown bigger, and 
should be something of a match for its inhabitants. 

But it was cold, it was darkening fast, it was past his 
ordinary lea-time. Liverpool and Lilliput were far away, 
pretty nearly equi-distant to the juvenile mind, and but for 
Samson’s shadow the tea-table would have looked allur- 
ing. To be sure of tea, and a bed to sleep in afterward, it 
seemed almost worth while to go back to the brew-house 
aud obey the paternal command to take his shirt off. To 
do the child justice, it was less the fear of the thrashing 
than the hot sense of rohellion at unfairness which kept 
him from returning. His father had beaten him into that 
untrue cry of “ No,” and had meant to force him to it, 
and then to beat him anew for it. Joe knew that better 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 63 

than Samson, for Samson, like the rest of us, liked to stand 
well with himself, and kept self-opinion in blinkers. 

Joe set* foot on the bridge. He had crossed the boundary 
brook hundreds of times in his brief life, and it had gener- 
ally come into his mind, with a boyish sense of adventure,, 
that when he did so he was putting foot into the enerny^s 
country. But the feeling had never been so strong as now. 
The Mountain Farm was home, and beyond it lay the wide, 
wide world, looking wide indeed, and bleak and cold. What 
with hot rebellion at injustice and cold fear of the vast and 
friendless expanse, Joe^s tears multiplied, and leaning his 
arms upon the low coping of the bridge, with his head be- 
tween them and his nose toucliing the frozen stone, he began, 
to cry unrestrainedly. 

Suddenly he heard a footstep, and it struck a ndy%' tr^ror 
into his soul. Freebooters, footpads, kidnappers, - 
genus omne, roamed those fields by night, in course of nliC 
lire. To the snug security of the home fireside and bed 
their images came with a delightful thrill of fear, but to 
be here alone and in the midst of them was altogether 
another thing. He kept crouching across the bridge, and 
stowed himself into the smallest possible compass between 
the end of the stone-work and the neighboring hedge-row, 
and there waited trembling. His pulses beat so fast and 
made such a noise in his ears that he was ready to take the 
sound of footsteps for the tread of a whole ogreish army, 
when he heard a voice. 

‘‘ Hode on a minutOj while I shift the sack.^^ 

The sack? It was easy — it was inevitable — to know that 
the sack contained a gobfin supper. 

“I shall be late for tea, Ichabod,'’^ said another voice, 
“ and then I shall get a blowing-up for coming. 

“ Let him who sighs in sadness here, 

Rejoice, and know a friend is near.” 

Joe sprung from his hiding-place, and startled Master 
Eichard and Ichabod more than a little. 


64 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


‘‘ That thee, Dick?^^ 

He knew it well enoughT^ut it was quite delightful to be 
able to ask it with certainty. 

Halloo,^^ said Master Richard, recognizing his sworn 
friend. “What are you doing? Are you trapping any- 
thing? 

“ No,^^ the hereditary enemy answered. had been 
crying, the poor little chap, until he had been frightened 
into quiet, and now on a sudden he was as brave and as 
glad again as ever he had been in his life. Once more ad- 
ventures loomed ahead fov the adventurous, and he shone 
within and grew warm with the sweet reflux of courage as 
he whispered, “l^m running away from home!^^ 

Once again, the feat was glorious. 

“ Ho!'^ said Master Richard, smitten with envy and ad- 
miration. “Are you? Really?^' 

“ Yes,^^ Joe answered. “ Ihn a-gooin^ to Liverpool, to 
begin wi\-’^ 

This was exquisitely large and vague, and Master Richard 
began to yearn for a share in the high enterprise upon 
which his friend had entered. He had half a mind to run 
away from home himself, though, to be sure, there was 
nothing else to run away from. In Joe^s case there was a 
difference. 

“ Where are you going to stay to-night?^ ^ asked Master 
Richard. The question sounded practical, but at bottom it 
was nothing of the sort. It was part of the romance of the 
thing, and yet it threw cold water on Joe^s newly lighted 
courage, and put it out again. 

“ I donH know,^^ said Joe, somewhat forlornly. 

“ I say,^^ interjected Ichabod, “ is that young Mountain, 
Master Richard? 

“ Yes,^^ said Master Richard. 

“ Thee know^st thyfeyther is again thy speakin’ to him, 
and his fey ther is again his speakin^ to thee. 

“ You mind your own business, Ichabod,^' said the young 


JULTA AXD HER ROMEO. 


65 


lautocrafc, who was a little spoiled perhaps, and had been 
■accustomed to have his own way in quite a princely fashion. 

“ Fm mindin’ it/^ returned Ichabod. “ It’s a part o’ 
;my business to keep thee out o’ mischief.” 

• “ Ah!” piped Master Kichard, you needn’t mind that 
part of your business to-night,” 

‘‘ All right, ’’said Ichabod, reshouldering the sack he had 
meanwhile balanced on the coping of the bridge. ‘‘ See as 
thee beesn’t late for tay-time.” 

With that, having discharged his conscience, he went on 
again, and the two boys stayed behind. 

‘‘ What are you running away for?” asked Richard. 

“ Why, feyther said it was brought to him as you and 
me had shook hands and had took on to befriends with one 
another, and he told me to go into the brewus and take my 
shirt off.” 

“ Take your shirt off?” inquired the other. In Joe’s 
life-time, short as it was, he had had opportunity to grow 
farriiliar with this fatherly formula, but it was strange to 
Master Richard. ‘‘ What for?” 

“ What for! Why, to get a hidin’, to be sure. ” 

Look here!” said Richard, having digested this, “ you 
come and stop in one of our barns. Have you had your 
tea?” 

“Ho,” returned Joe. “I shouldn’t ha’ minded so 
much if I had. ” 

“ I’ll bring something out to you,” said the protector, 

. So the two lads set out together, and to evade Ichabod, 
struck off at a run across the fields, Joe pantiugly setting 
forth, in answer to his comrade’s questions, how he was 
^oing to be a sailor or a pirate, “ or summat,” or to have 
a desert island like Crusoe. Of course, it was all admirable 
to both of them, and, of course, it was all a great deal more 
real than the fields they ran over. 

The runaway was safely deposited in a roomy barn, and 
left there alone, when once again a life of adventures began 


66 


JULIA AND HEE EOMEO. 


to assume a darkish complexion. It was cold, it was anx- 
ious, it seemed to drag interminabl3", and ifc was abominably 
lonely. If it were to be all like this, even the prospect of 
an occasional taking off of one’s shirt in the brew-house-, 
looked less oppressive than it had done. 

The hidden Joe, bound for piracy on the high seas, or a. 
Crusoe’s island somewhere, gave a wonderful zest to Master 
Eichard’s meal. But an hour, which seemed like a year to* 
the less fortunate of the two, went by before a raid upon 
the well-furnished larder of Perry Hall could be effected. 
"When the opportunity came. Master Eichard, with no re- 
monstrance from conscience, laid hands upon a loaf and a 
dish of delicious little cakes of fried pork fat, from which 
the lard had that day been “ rendered,” and thus supplied, 
stole out to his hereditary enemy and fed him. The her- 
editary enemy complained of cold, and his host groped the 
dark place for sacks, and, having found them, brought 
them to him. 

‘‘I say,” said Joe, when he had tasted the provender, 
‘‘ them’s scratchings. That’s gay and fine. I never had 
as many as I should like afore. Mother says they ’re toe 
rich, but that’s all rubbish.” 

He made oily feast in the dark, with the sacks heaped 
about him. With Master Eichard to help him, he began 
to swim in adventure, and the pair were so fascinated and 
absorbed that one of the farm servants went bawling “ Mas- 
ter Eichard ” about the outlying buildings for two or three 
minutes before they heard him. When at last the calf 
reached their ears they had to wait until it died away again 
before the surreptitious host dare leave the barn, lest his 
being seen should draw attention to the place. 

Then Joe, who had been hunting wild beasts of all sorts 
with the greatest possible gusto, began, in turn, to be hunt- 
ed by them. The rattlesnake, hitherto unknown to Castle 
Barfield, became a common object; the lion and the polar 
bear met on common ground in the menagerie of Joe’s im- 


JULIA AND HEB EOMEO. 


67 


agination. Whatever poor blessings and hopes he had, and 
whatever school- boy wealth he owned, he would have sur- 
rendered all of them to be in the brew-house of the Mount- 
ain Farm, even though he were there to take his shirt off. 
But the empty, impassable, awful night stood between him 
and any refuge, and he must need stay where he was, and 
sweat with terror under his sacks, through all the prodig- 
ious tracts of time which lay between the evening and the 
morning. He was to have been up and afoot for Liverpool 
Before dawn, but tired nature chose the time he had fixed 
for starting to send him to sleep, and when Master Eichard 
stole into the barn with intent to disperse the sacks and 
clear away any sign of Joe^s occupancy, he found him slum- 
bering soundly, with a tear-stained cheek resting on a dirty 
brown hand. 

There had been the wildest sort of hubbub and disoraer 
at the Mountain Farm all night. Mrs. Mountain had v/ept 
and wrung her hands, and, rocking herself to and fro, had 
poured forth doleful prophecy. Samson, who had begun 
with bluster, had fallen into anxiety, and had himself traced 
the course of the brook for a full mile by lantern-light. 
The farm hands had been sent abroad, and had tracked 
every road without result. Of course the one place where 
nobody so much as thought of making inquiry was the 
house of the hereditary foe, but pretty early, in the course 
of the morning, the news of Joe Mountain's disappearance, 
and something of the reasons for it, reached Perry Hall. 
Everybody at Perry Hall knew already what a terrible per- 
sonage Samson Mountain was, and his behavior on this oc- 
casion was the theme of scathing comment. 

Master Richard was guilty at heart, but exultant. Being 
a boy of lively imagination, he took to a secrecy so pro- 
found, and became so strikingly stealthy as to excite ob- 
servation and remark. He was watched and tracked to the 
barn, and then the discovery came about as a matter of 
course. The Reddys much of Joe — they had no 


68 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


quarrel with an innocent, persecuted child — but their kind- 
ness and commiseration were simply darts to throw alrSam- 
son. 

It was noon when Eeddy put the trembling adventurer 
into his trap, and with his own hands drove him home. 
The two enemies met and glowered at each other. 

“ IVe found your lad and brought him home,^^ said 
Reddy; “ though I doubt it^s a cruel kindness to him.” 

Samson, with all the gall in his nature burning at his.- 
heart, lifted Joe from the trap and set him on the ground 
in silence. Reddy, in silence, turned his horse's head, 
touched him with the whip, and drove away. Joe was wel- 
comed home by a thrashing, which he remembers in old age. 

The episode bore fruit in several ways. To begin with,. 
Master Joe was packed off to a distant school, far from, 
that to which young Reddy was sent. But the boys found 
each other out in the holidays, and became firm friends on 
the sly, and Joe was so loyal and admiring that he never 
ceased to talk to his one confidante of the courage, the 
friendliness, the generosity, the agility, and skill of his 
secret hero. The confidante was his sister Julia, to whom 
the young hereditary enemy became a synonym for what- 
ever is lovely and of good report. She used to look at him 
in church — she had little other opportunity of observing 
him — and would think in her childish, innocent mind how 
handsome and noble he looked. He did not speak hke the 
Barfield boys, or look like them, or walk like them. He 
was a young prince, heir to vast estates, and a royal title in 
fairy-land. If story books were few and far between, the 
sentimental foolish widow, Jennie Rusker, was a mine of 
narrative, and a single fairy tale is enough to open all other 
fairy lore to a child's imagination. If the little girl wor- 
shiped the boy, he, in his turn, looked kindly down on her. 
He had fought for her once at odds of two to one, and he 
gave her a smile now and then. It happened that in this 
wise began the curious, half -laughable and half-pathetic lit- 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


69 


tie history which buried the hatreds of the Castle Barfield 
Capulet aud Montague forever. 


III. 

In this Castle Barfield version of Romeo and Juliet the 
parod}^ would have been impossible without the aid and in- 
tervention of some sort of Friar Lawrence. He was a nota- 
bility of those parts in those days, and he was known as the 
Dudley Devil. In these enlightened times he would have 
been dealt with as a rogue and vagabond, and, not to bear 
too hardly upon an historical personage, whom there is no- 
body (even with all our wealth of historical charity-mongers) 
to whitewash, he deserved richly in his own day the treat- 
ment he would have experienced in ours. He discovered 
stolen property — when his confederates aided him; he put 
the eye on people obnoxious to his clients, for a considera- 
tion; he overlooked milch cows, and they yielded blood; he 
went about in the guise of a great gray tom-cat. It was 
historically true in my childhood — though, like other things,, 
it may have ceased to be historically true since then — that 
it was in this disguise of the great gray tom-cat that ho 
met his death. He was tired at by a farmer, the wounded 
cat crawled into the wizard’s cottage, and the demon re- 
stored to human form was found dying later on with a gun- 
shot charge in his ribs. There were people alive, a dozen — 
nay, half a dozen — years ago, who Icnew these things, to- 
whom it was blasphemous to dispute them. 

The demon’s earthly name was Rufus Smith, and he 
lived “ by Dudley Wood side, where the wind blows cold,’^ 
as the local ballad puts it. His mother had dealt in the 
black art before him, and was ducked to death in the Severn 
by the bridge in the ancient town of Bewdley. He was a 
lean man, with a look of surly fear. It is likely enough 
that he half expected some of his invocations to come true 
one fine day or other, with consequences painful to himself. 


70 


JULIA AND HEK liOMEO. 


The old notions are dying out fast, but it used to be said in 
that region that when a man talked to himself he was talk- 
ing with the universal enemy. Eufus and his mother were 
great chatterers in solitude, and what possible companion 
could they have but one? 

It is not to be supposed that all the ministrations for 
which the people of the country-side relied upon Rufus were 
mischievous. If he had done nothing but overlook cattle 
and curse crops, and so forth, he would have been hunted 
out. Some passably good people have been said, upon oc- 
casions, to hold a candle to the devil. With a similar diver- 
sion from general principle, Rufus was known occasionally 
to perform acts of harmless utility. He charmed away 
warts and corns, he prepared love filters, and sold lucky 
stones. He foreran the societies which, insure against acci- 
dent, and would guarantee whole bones for a year or a life- 
time, according to the insurer's purse or fancy. He told 
fortunes by the palm and by the cards, and was the sole 
proprietor and vender of a noted heal-all salve of magic 
properties. 

He and his mother had gathered together between them 
a respectable handful of ghastly trifles, which were of sub- 
stantial service alike to him and to his clients. A gentle- 
man coming to have his corns or warts charmed away 
would be naturally assisted toward faith by the aspect of 
the polecat’s skeleton, the skulls of two or three local crim- 
inals, and the shriveled, mummified dead things which 
hung about the walls or depended head downward from the 
ceiling. These decorations apart, the wizard’s home was 
a little commonplace. It stood by itself in a bare hollow, 
an unpicturesque and barn-like cottage, not altogether 
weather-proof. 

It fell upon a day that Mrs. Jennie Rusker drove over 
from Castle Barfield to pay Rufus a visit. She rode in a 
smart little trap, the kind of thing employed by the better 
sort of rustic tradesmen, and drove a smart little pony. 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


71 


She was a motherly, foolish, good creature, who next to 
the reading of plays and romances loved to have children 
about her and to make them happy. On this particular 
day she had Master Richard with her. She kept up her 
acquaintance with both her old lovers, and was on terms of 
rather foolish friendship with them. But she adored their 
children, and would every now and again make a descent 
on the house of one or other of her old admirers and ravish 
away a child for a day or two. 

Mrs. Jennie had consoled herself elsewhere for the loss of 
lovers for whom she had never cared a half-penny, but she 
had never ceased to hold a sort of liking for both her old 
suitors. Their claims had formerly been pretty evenly bal- 
anced in her mind, and even now, when the affair was 
ancient enough in all conscience to have been naturally and 
quietly buried long ago, she never met either of her quon- 
dam lovers without some touch of old-world coquetry in 
her manner. The faintest and most far-away touch of 
anything she could call romance was precious to the old 
woman, and having a rare good heart of her own under all 
her superannuated follies, she adored the children. Dick 
was her especial favorite, as was only natural, for he was 
pretty enough and regal enough with his childish airs of 
'pdit grand seigneur to make him beloved of most women 
who met him. Women admire the frank masterfulness of 
a generous and half-spoiled boy, and Mrs. Jennie saw in the 
child the prophecy of all she had thought well of in his 
father, refined by the grace of childhood and by a better 
breeding than the father had ever had. 

So she and Dick were great allies, and there was always 
cake and elderberry wine and an occasional half-crown for 
him at Laburnum Cottage. It was only natural that, so 
fostered, Dick^s affection for the old lady should be consid- 
erable. She was his counselor and confidante from his 
earliest years, and the little parlor, with its antiquated fur- 
niture and works of art in wool, its haunting odor ot pot- 


72 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


pourri emanating from the big china jar upon the mantel- 
shelf, and its moist warm atmosphere dimly filtered through 
the drooping green and gold of the lab urnum-tree,. whose 
leaves tapped incessantly against the lozenged panes of its 
barred windows, was almost as familiar in his memory in 
after years as the sitting-room at home at the farm. 

Dick conferred upon its kindly and garrulous old tenant 
the brevet rank of “ Aunt Jennie, and loved her, telling 
her, in open-hearted childish fashion, his thoughts, experi- 
ences, and secrets, l^aturally, the story of the fight with 
the painim oppressors of beauty came out in his talk soon 
after its occurrence, and lost nothing in the telling. Mrs. 
Jennie would have found a romance in circumstances much 
less easily usable to that end than those of the scion of one 
house rescuing the daughter of a rival and inimical line, 
and here was material enough for foolish fancy. She cast 
a prophetic eye into the future, and saw Dick and Julia, 
man and maid, reuniting their severed houses in the bonds 
of love, or doubly imbittering their mutual hatred and per- 
ishing — young and lovely victims to clannish hatred and 
parental rigor— like Komeo and Juliet. 

The boy’s account of the fight was given as he sat by her 
side in her little pony-trap in the cheerfully frosty morning. 
Dick chatted gayly as the shaggy-backed pony trotted along 
the resounding road with a clatter of hoofs and a jingle of 
harness, and an occasional sneeze at the frosty air. They 
passed the field of battle bn the road, and Dick pointed it 
out. Then, as was natural, he turned to the family feud, 
and retailed all he had heard from Ichabod, supplemented 
by information from other quarters and such additions of 
fancy as imaginative children and savages are sure to weave 
about the fabric of any story which comes in their way to 
make tradition generally the trustworthy thing it is. 

Mrs. Rusker was strong on the family quarrel. A fam- 
ily quarrel was a great thing in her estimation, almost as 
good as a family ghost, and she gave Dick the whole history 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


73 


of the incident of the brook and of many others which had 
grown out of it, among them one concerning the death of 
a certain Reddy which had tragically come to pass a year or 
two before his birth. The said Reddy had been found one 
November evening stark and cold at the corner of the par- 
song’s spinney, with an empty gun grasped in his stiifened 
hand, and a whole charge of email shot in his breast. 
Crowner^s quest had resulted in a verdict of death by mis- 
adventure, and the generally received explanation was that 
the young fellow^s own gun had worked the mischief by 
careless handling in passing through stiff undergrowth. 
But a certain ne^er-do-well Mountain, a noted striker and 
tosspot of the district, had mysteriously disappeared about 
that date, and had never since come within sc6pe of Castle 
Barfield knowledge. Ugly rumors had got afioat, vague 
and formless, and soon to die out of general memory. Dick 
listened open-mouthed to all this, and when the narrative 
was concluded, held his peace for at least two minutes. 

“ jSke isn’t wicked, is she. Aunt Jennie?” he suddenly 
demanded. 

‘‘ She? Who?” asked Mrs. Rusker in return. 

The little girl, Julia.” 

‘‘ Wicked? Sakes alive, whativer is the boy talking 
about? Wicked? O’ course not. She’s a dear good little 
thing as i ver lived . ” 

“ ichabod said that all the Mountains were wicked. But 
1 know Joe isn’t — at least, not very. He promised nie a 
monkey and a parrot — a green parrot, when he came back 
from running away. But he didn’t run away, because 
father found him and took him home. His father gave 
him an awful thrashing. He often thrashes him, Joe says. 
Father never thrashes me. What does his father thrash 
him for?” 

“Mr. Mountain’s a harder man than your father, my 
dear. An’ I fear as Joe’s a bit wild, like his father when 
he was a boy, and obstinit. Theer niver was a obstinater 


74 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


man i’ this earth than Samson Mountain, I do believe, an' 
Joe’s got- a bit on it in him." 

‘‘ She/s pretty," said Dick, returning with sudden child- 
ish inconsequence to the subject uppermost in his thoughts. 
‘‘Joe isn’t. Why is it that the girls are always prettier 
than the boys?" 

‘ ‘ I used to think it was the other way about when I was 
a gell," said Aunt Jenny, with perfect simplicity. “ But 
she is pretty, that’s true. But then her mother was a like- 
ly lass, an’ Samson warn’t bad-lookin’, if he hadn’t ha’ 
been so fierce an’ cussid. An’ to think as it should be you, 
of all the lads i’ Barfield, as should save a Mountain. An’ 
a gell, too. I suppose as you’ll be a-settin’ up to fall in 
love wi’ her now, like Borneo and Juliet?” 

“ What was that?” asked the boy. 

“It’s a play, my dear, wrote by a clever man as has 
been dead iver so many ’ears, William Shaakespeare. ’’ 

“ Shakespeare?’’ said Dick. “ I know. It’s a big book 
on one of the shelves at home, full of poetry. But what’s 
Borneo and Juliet?" 

“ Borneo and Juliet was two lovers, as lived a long time 
ago in a place called Verona. I don’t know where it is," 
she added, quickly, to stave off the imminent question al- 
ready on the boy’s lips. “ Somewhere abroad, wheer Bony- 
party is. Juliet’s name was Capilet, an’ Borneo’s was 
Montague, an’ the Oapilets and the Montagues hated each 
other so as they could niver meet wi’out havin’ a bit of a 
turn-up one with another. They was as bad as the Beddys 
an’ the Mountains, only, i’ them daysen folks allays wore 
swords an’ daggers, so’s when they fowt they mostly killed 
each other. Well, one night old Capilet gi’en a party, an’ 
asked all his friends, an’ everybody wore masks, so’s they 
didn’t know half the time who they was a-talkin’ tew, as 
was the fashion i’ them times, an’ Borneo, he goes, just for 
divilment, an’ he puts on a mask tew, so as they didn’t 
know him, else they’d ha’ killed him, sure an’ certain. An’ 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


75 


theer he sees Juliet, aii^ she was beautiful, an’ he falls 
plump in love wi’ her, an’ she falls in love wi’ him, an’ 
they meets o’ nights, i’ the moonlight, on the window-ledge 
outside her room, but they had to meet i’ secret, ’cause the 
two fam’lies was like cat an’ dog, an’ there ’d ha’ been 
awful doin’s if they’d been found out. Well, old Capilet 
— that was Juliet’s feyther — he finds a husband for Juliet, 
a nice chap enough, a count, like Lord Barfield, on’y 
younger an’ likelier. An’ Juliet, she gets welly mad, be- 
cause she wants to marry Romeo. And then, to mek mat- 
ters wuss, Romeo meets one o’ Juliet’s relations, a young 
man named Tybalt, as hates him like pison, an’ they fowt, 
un’ Romeo killed him. Well, the Capilets was powerful 
wi’ the king as ruled in Verona, like Joseph used to be 
with Pharaoh in the Holy Land, my dear, an’ Romeo, he 
has to run away an’ hide himself, else p’raps the’d ha’ 
hung him for killin’ Tybalt, though it was Tybalt as begun 
the fight, so poor Juliet’s left all alone. An’ her marriage- 
day’s a-gettin’ near, and old Capilet, he’s stuck on her 
marryin’ the count, an’ the day’s been named, and every- 
thing provided for the weddin’. Well, Romeo takes a 
thought, an’ goes to a friar, a kind o’ priest, as was a very 
book-learned man, and asks if he can help him. And at 
first he says no, he can’t, an’ Romeo gets that crazed, he’s 
goin’ to kill himself, but by an’ by he thinks of a plan. He 
gives Juliet a bottle o’ physic stuff to send her to sleep, and 
make her look as if she was dead. Then her relations ’ll 
be sure to bury her i’ the family vault, an’ he’ll write to 
Romeo to come back to Verona i’ the night-time an’ take 
her out o’ the vault, an’ goo away quiet wi’ her till things 
have blown over, an’ they can come back again. An’ Ju- 
liet takes the physic, an’ everybody thinks her dead, her 
father, an’ her mother, an’ her old nuss, an’ Paris— that’s 
the name of the gentleman as they wanted her to marry — 
an’ there’s such a hullabaloo an’ racket as niver was. An’ 
they buried her i’ the vault, wi’ all her relations, an’ the 


76 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


old friar thinks as it^s all a-comin’ straight. But the letter 
ns lieM writ to Komeo niver reaches him, an^ Romeo hears 
ns how Juliet's really dead, and he buys a bottle o' pison, 
nn' comes to Juliet's grave i' the night-time, an’ there he 
meets Paris, as has come to put flowers there an' pray for 
Juliet's soul, knowin' no better and lovin' her very dear. 
An' him an' Romeo fights, and Romeo kills him, an' opens 
the vault, an' go's in, an' theer's Juliet, lyin' stiff an' 
stark, because the physic ain't had time to work itself off 
yit. An' he kisses her, an' cries over her, and then he 
teks the pison, and dies. An' just as he's done it, Juliet 
wakes up, and finds him dead, and she takes his knife, and 
kills herself, poor thing, an' that's the hend on 'em. " 

The old sentimentalist's eyes were moist, and her voice 
choked, as she concluded her legend. It was the first love- 
story Dick had ever heard, and in pity at the beautiful nar- 
rative, which no clumsiness of narration could altogether 
rob of its pathos, he was crying too. There is no audience 
like an impressionable child, and the immortal story of love 
and misfortune seemed very pitiful to his small and tender 
heart. 

Why, theer! theer! Dick! It's only a story, my dear, 
wroje in a book," said Mrs. Jennie. ‘‘ It most likely ain't 
true, an' if it is, it all happened sich a time ago as it's no 
good a-frettin' about it. Why, wheeriver did you get all 
them warts?" She took one of the hands with which Dick 
was rubbing his eyes. “ You should have 'em looked tew, 
they quite spile your hands. I must get Rufus Smith to 
have a look at 'em. You know who we'm agoin' to see, 
don't you? You’ve heard tell o' the Dudley Devil, Dick?" 

Yes," said Dick. “ Ichabod goes to him for his rheu- 
matism." 

‘‘ It's on'y a step away. That's his cottage, over there. 
We'll get him to charm the warts away." 

A hundred yards further on, Mrs. Jennie checked the 
pony, and, dismounting from the vehicle, bade Dick tie him 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


77 


to an elder-shoofc, and follow her. They went through a gap 
in a ruinous hedge, and traversed a furzy field, at the fur- 
ther side of which stood the wizard ^s hut, a wretched place 
of a single story, with a shuttered window and a thatched 
Toof, full of holes and overgrown with weeds. As they ap- 
proached the door a mighty clatter was audible within, and 
Mrs. Jenny held the boy’s hand in a’ tightened grasp, fear- 
ful of devilry. As they stood irresolute to advance or re- 
treat, a big cat dashed out at the door- way with a feline 
imprecation, and the wizard appeared, revengefully waving 
^ stick, and swearing furiously. 

“ Ouss the brute,” he said. “ The divil’s in her, sure 
^n’ sartin’. ” 

It seemed not unlikely to the on-lookers, the cat being 
the wizard’s property, and therefore, by all rule and pre- 
.scription, his prompter and familiar. She was not of the 
received color, however, her fur being of a rusty red. But 
as she raised her back, and spat at her master’s visitors 
from under her chubbed tail, she looked demoniac enough 
Tor anything. And from the fashion in which, her anathema 
once launched, she sat down and betook herself to the re- 
arrangement of her ruffled coat, it might have been con- 
jectured that it was not purely personal to them, but that 
they were attacked merely as types of the human race, 
whose society she and her master had forsworn. 

Cuss her!” reiterated the wizard. “ Where’s her got 
tew? My soul, what’s this?” 

He peered with a short-sighted terror-stricken scowl on 
Mrs. Jenny and her charge, as if for a moment the fancy 
had crossed him, that his refractory familiar had taken 
their shapes. His g^ray lips muttered something, and his 
fingers worked oddly as he took a step or two forward, 
.clearly outlined in the cold winter sunshine against the 
black void beyond his open door. 

Why, Rufus, what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Jennie. 

Don’t look like that at a body.” 


78 


JULIA AND HEK ROMEO. 


“ It'^s you, mum?’^ said the necromancer. A look of re- 
lief came into his wizened face. ‘‘ I didn’t know but what 
it might be — ” His voice trailed off into an indistinct 
murmur, and he smeared his hand heavily across his face, 
and looked at it, mistrustfully, as if he rather expected to* 
find something else in its place. “Cuss her!” he said 
again, looking round for the cat. 

“ What’s she done?” demanded Mrs. Jennie. 

“ Done? Eat up all my brekfus, that’s what she’s^ 
done,” rejoined the wizard. The familiar grinned with a 
relish of the situation so fiendishly human that Dick clung 
closer to Mrs. Eusker’s hand, and devoutly wished himself 
back in the trap. To his childish sense the incongruity of 
one gifted with demoniac powers being helpless to prevent 
the depredations of his own domestic animal did not ap- 
peal. As for Mrs. Jennie, she had piously believed in witch- 
craft all her life, and was quite as insensible to the absurd- 
ity as he. 

“ I want you to look at this young gentleman’s hands,”" 
said Mrs. Eusker. “ He’s got warts bad. I suppose yon 
can charm ’em away for him?” 

Appealed to on a point of his art, the wizard’s air 
changed altogether. He assumed an aspect of wooden 
majesty. 

“Why, yis,” he said. “ I think I’m equal to that. Step 
inside, mum, and bring the young gentleman with you.” 

“ Couldn’t you — ” Mrs. Eusker hesitatingly began, 
“ couldn’t you do it outside?” 

“ The forms and ceremonies,” said the necromancer, 
with an increase of woodenness in his manner, “ can not be 
applied out o’ doors. Arter you, mum.” 

He ushered them into the one room of his hut, and the^ 
cat, with her tail floating above her like a banner, entered 
too, evading a kick, and sprung upon a rotten deal shelf, 
which apparently acted as both dresser and table. 

Eufus closed the ruinous door, thereby intensifying the? 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


79 


^loom which reigned within the place. The floor was of 
simple earth, unboarded, and the air smelt of it. Here and 
there a fine spear of ghostly sunlight pierced a crack in 
Toof or wall. By the time their eyes had become accus- 
tomed to the gloom they saw that Rufus, on his knees on 
the floor, was scratching a circle about himself with a scrap 
of a broken pot, and the indistinct rhythmic murmur of 
the spell he muttered reached their ears. 

The cat, perched upon the dresser, purred as if her in- 
ternal machinery were running down to final collapse, and 
her contracting and dilating eyes borrowed infernal fires 
'from the chance ray of sunshine in which she sat. The 
brute^s rusty red head, so lighted, fascinated Dick, and the 
mingled rhythms of her purring and the wizard^’s mounted 
and mounted, until to his bewildered mind the whole world 
seemed filled with their murmur, and the demoniac head 
seemed to dilate as he gazed at it. Suddenly, Rufus paused 
in his sing-song, and the cat^s purr ceased with it, as 
though her share of the charm was done. 

‘‘Come into the ring,^' said Rufus. His voice was 
shaky, and if there had been light enough to see it, his face 
was gray with terror of his own hocus-pocus. The cat^s 
head had dropped out of the line of sunlight, and she had 
soiled herself up on the dresser among a disorderly litter of 
■crockery ware. Dick, relieved from the fascination of her 
too-visible presence, obeyed the summons, and Rufus, seat- 
ing himself upon a broken stool, took his hand in moist 
and quivering fingers, and touching the warts one by one, 
recommenced his mumble. It had proceeded for a minute 
or so, when a crash, which, following as it did on the dead 
.stillness, an earthquake could scarce have equaled, elicited 
a scream from Mrs. Jennie and brought the wizard to his 
knees with a yell of terror. 

“ My blessid!’" he cried, with clacking jaws, “ IVe done 
it at last! Get thee behind me, Satan 

In terror-stricken earnest he believed that the Great 


80 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


Personage he had passed all his life in trying to raise had 
answered to his call at last. So, though it was unquestion- 
ably a relief to him to find that the appalling clatter had 
merely been caused by his familiar ^s pursuit of a mouse- 
among the crockery, a shade of disappointment may have 
followed the discovery. 

“ Cuss her!’^ he said, for the third time that morning,, 
and with additional unction. ‘‘ Her^ll be the death of me,, 
some day, I know her will!^^ 


IV. 

A SUMMER sunset filled all the sky above Castle Barfield 
and its encircling fields. The sun had disappeared, leaving- 
behind him a broad reflected track of glory where, here and. 
there, a star was faintly visible. A light wind was blowing: 
from the hollow which sheltered the town toward the higher- 
land whereon the rival houses of Keddy and Mountain faced, 
each other. Below, it was already almost night, and as 
the wind blew the shadow mounted, as if the wind carried 
it. The rose and gold left by the departing sun faded 
down the sky, and settled at the horizon into a broad band 
of deep-toned fire, which, to one facing it in ascending 
from the lower ground seemed to bind the two houses to- 
gether. Some such fancy might have been in the head of 
Mrs. Jennie Busker, as she went in the warm evening air 
toward the little eminence on which stood the long low-built- 
house of Samson Reddy, already a-t winkle with occasional 
lights in the gloom its own bulk cast against the fast-fading, 
band of sunset. 

Mrs. Jenn}^, hale and vigorous yet, and still a widow, was- 
older by fifteen years than on the day when she unfolded to 
Pick Reddy the story of Rgmeo and Juliet. Fifteen years, 
was a good slice out of a life-time, even in Castle Barfield 
in the first half of the century, when time slipped by so 
quietly and left so little trace to mark his flight. 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


81 


She passed the gate which opened on the public road, 
and entered the Mountain domain. The air was so still that 
the babble of the boundary brook was clearly audible a hun- 
dred yards away, with nothing to accent it but the slow 
heavy flap of a late crow, winging his reluctant flight 
homeward, and save for him, sky and earth alike seemed 
empty of life, and delivered wholly to the clinging peace of 
evening. So that when Mrs. Jennie came to the only clump 
of trees in her line of progress between the gate and tho 
house the little scream of surprise with which she found 
herself suddenly face to face with an unexpected human 
figure was justified. 

“ Sh-h-h!^'’ said the figure^s owner. ‘‘ Don’t you know 
me, Aunt Jennie?” 

‘‘ Dick!” said Mrs. Jennie, peering at him. So it is* 
You welly frightened the life out o’ me. What brings you 
here, of all placen in the world?” 

‘‘ Can’t you guess?” asked Dick. He was tall and broad- 
shouldered now, an admirable fulfillment of the physical 
promise of his boyhood, and far overtopped Mrs. Eusker* 
“ It isn’t for the first time.” 

“ I feared not,” said the old woman. ‘‘ You was allays 
main venturesome.” 

‘‘ It will be for the last, for some time. Aunt Jennie. I 
leave Castle Barfield to-morrow.” 

“ Leave Barfield?” cried the old woman. “ Why, Djek,. 
wheer are ye goin’? You ain’t a-goin’ to do nothin’ rash,, 
that I do hope. ” 

‘‘I am going to London,” said Dick, and I must see 
Julia before I go. You must help me. You are going to 
the house, now, aren’t you?” 

Going to London?” repeated Mrs. Busker, who had no- 
ears for the last words after that announcement. ‘‘ What’s 
made you so hot foot to go to London all of a minute 
like?” 

“ It was decided to-day. My father suspects what is go- 


82 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


ing on. I feel sure of it, though he has never said a word 
about it. You know he always meant to make a doctor of 
me — it was my own choice when I was quite a little fellow, 
and it has always been understood. Last month he asked 
me if I was of the same mind still, and to-day he told me 
that my seat is taken in the coach from Birmingham. 
You know my father. Aunt Jennie, as well as I do. He 
has been a very good father to me, and I would not give 
him pain or trouble for the world. I could not refuse. 
Indeed, it is my last chance of ever doing anything for my- 
self and making a home for Julia. 

‘‘ My dear, they ^11 never hear on it, nayther of ^em. 
Samson Mountain M rather see his daughter in her coffin 
than married to any kin of Abel Reddy’s. Though he 
loves her, too, in a kind o’ way. An’ your father’s jist as 
hard; he’s on’y quieter with it, that’s all. They’ll niver 
consent. Niver, i’ this world.” 

“ Then we must do without their consent, that’s all. I 
must see Julia to-night, and you must help me. Tell her 
that I am here and must see her. Oh, Aunt Jennie, you 
are surely not going to desert us now, after helping us so 
often.” 

‘‘ I’m dub’ous, my dear. I hope good may. come of it, 
but I’m dub’ous. I’m doubtful if I did right in helping 
you, again your father’s will, an’ Mr. Mountain’s, too.” 

You won’t refuse to do so little, after doing so much,” 
pleaded the young man. ‘‘ Why, it was at your house that 
I used to meet her, when we were children together, and 
you first christened us Romeo and Juliet.” 

‘‘ A name o’ bad omen, my dear. I wish I hadn’t 
gi’en it to you now. ” 

‘‘ I don’t believe much in omens,” said Dick. “But 
you will tell Julia that I am here, won’t you? It’s the last 
time, for ever so long.” 

“I’ll tell her,” said Mrs. Rusker. “But don’t stay 
here; goo down to the Five Ash. Mr. Mountain’s gone to 


JULIA AI^D HER ROMEO. 


85 


Burmungem, an’ he’ll come acros this way, when he comes 
back. You must tek a bit o’ care, Dick, for the gell’s 
sake. ” 

“I’ll take care, dear. It’s good-bye, this time, aunt. 
You’ve been very good to me, always, and I sha’n’t forget 
your kindness while I’m away. And you’ll be good to 
Julia, too, while — while I’m away, won’t you?” 

Mrs. Busker’s objections had never had any heart in 
them, and had been merely perfunctory, and such as she 
conceived her age and semi-maternal authority compelled 
her to make. She was wholly given over to Dick and 
J ulia, and all her simple craft was for their service. She 
kissed him, and cried over him, and. so they parted, he 
bound for the Five Ash field, and she for the farm-house. 

“ Why, lacsaday, Jennie, whativer is the matter?” asked 
Mrs. Mountain, when her visitor entered her sitting-room, 
and gave her tear-stained cheek to her old friend’s em- 
brace. Julia, a lithe, graceful girl, rose at the query 
from the other side of the little table, and came to Mrs. 
Busker’s side. 

“Why, you’re cryin’,” continued the elder woman. 
“ What is it, my dear, as has upset you i’ this wise?” 

“ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Busker, wiping her eyes 
and smoothing her dress, as if her grief was done with and 
put away, “ it ain’t a trouble as I expects sympathy from 
you in.” 

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. 

“ It must be a queer sort o’ trouble, then,” said Mrs. 
Mountain; “ an’ you might tell me what it is afore you say 
that, Mrs. Busker, arter all these ’ears as we’n knowed 
each other. ” 

“ Well, if you must know, I’ve jist sin young Beddy, i’’ 
the road, jist outside the Five Ash.” Julia’s hand was on 
her shoulder as she spoke, and she felt the soft touch trem- 
ble. “ He’s a-leavin’ Barfield, a-goin’ to London, for a long 
time.” 


^4 


JULIA AN^D HER ROMEO. 


Oh, that's the matter, is it? Well, I don't know any- 
thin' agin the young man, barrin' as lie is a Iteddy. An' 
for the matter o' that, though o' course a woman has no 
ch'ice but to stand by the kin as her marries into, I niver 
found much harm in 'em, unless it is as they're a bit stuck 
up. I know as you was allays fond on him, an' I hope the 
young man 'll do well. I've often said to Samson as it was 
all rubbidge, a-keepin' up a old quarrel like that, as keeps 
two dacent fam'lys at daggers drawn. Theer, theer, let 
Julia get you a cup o' tay, an' let's talk o' somethin' 
cheerful." 

“I'll go and send it in to you," said Julia. She ex- 
changed one quick glance of intelligence with the widow as 
she left the room. The old woman had done her errand, 
and Julia knew where to seek her lover. She found her 
liat in the hall, and slipped out by the back way after 
directing the servant to take in the required refreshment to 
Mrs. Eusker. It was bright moonlight now, and as she 
ran lightly across the Five Ash field in her white summer 
dress, Dick, waiting in the shelter of the hedge, saw her 
plainly, and advanced to meet her. 

“ Oh, Dick, is it true?" 

He took her in his arms and kissed her before he an- 
swered. “ Yes, dear, it's true. I am going to London." 

“ But why, so suddenly, so soon?" 

“ I must, dear. It is my own choice. I am going to 
study, to fit myself to take my place in the world, and to 
find a home for you. Be brave, dear. It is only for a 
little time. " 

“ It is all so sudden." 

“ Yes. I had hoped to stay a little longer, to see more 
of you, to get used to my happiness before I lost it. But 
my father suspects, I am sure, if he does not know, and I 
dared not refuse. It hurts me to go, but what can I do? 
You know the man he is. And there is only one thing in 
the world that your father would help him to do— to sepa- 


JULIA AXD HER ROMEO. 


85 


Yate us. I must go away aud make a home for you with 
my own hands; we can expect no help from them. If we 
-are true to each other we shall be happy yet. Our love 
may end the ridiculous family squabble which has lasted 
all these generations. But it would be madness to speak 
jet-'' 

“ It is that which makes me so unhappy, Dick. Why 
am I not like other girls? Why can't you come to the 
Farm and ask my father's leave to court me, as other girls’ 
sweethearts do, and as you would like to do? I can't help 
feeling that this is wrong, meeting you in secret, and being 
engaged to you against my father's will ; without his knowl- 
edge. " 

“ The quarrel is not of our making, Julia. We only 
^suffer by it. I hope we shall bring it to an end, aud teach 
two honest men to live at peace together, as they ought. 
Why, you're crying. " 

Her tears had been running quietly for some minutes 
past, but at this she began to sob unrestrainedly. Dick 
'Comforted her in the orthodox fashion, and in that sweet 
^employment almost succeeded in forgetting his own sor- 
row. He drew bright pictures of the future: youth held 
the palette, and hope laid on the color. Two or three 
years of partial separation — so little — and he would have a 
-livelihood in his hand, and could offer her a safe asylum 
from parental tyranny, and bid his own people either to 
•■accept the situation or renounce him, as they might choose. 
He was quite heroic internally about the whole business. 
He felt the promise of the coming struggle b.r^e his nerves, 
:and he was more than ready for the test. Young love is 
selfish, at the best, and the heroic likeness of himself doing 
battle with the world of London half obliterated the pitiful 
figure of the poor girl, left at home, with nothing to fill 
her heart but dreams. For him, the delight of battle; for 
her, long months of weary waiting. 


86 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


It was no doubt of him, but only the rooted longing for 
assurance of his love, that made her ask — 

“ You won^’t forget me, Dick, in London?^^ 

Forget her! His repetition of the word, his little laugh 
of loving scorn, were answer enough, though he found 
others, and arguments unanswerable to clinch them. How 
could he forget the sweetest, dearest girl that ever drew the 
breath of life, the prettiest and the bravest? She spoke 
treason against herself in asking such a question. He 
could no more forget her in London, than Romeo Juliet in 
Mantua. She laughed a little at liis recalling the old story, 
from which Mrs. Jennie had drawn so many illustrations of 
the course of their love since they were children. It re- 
called the old woman to their minds. 

“ I shall write to you every week, and send the letters- 
under cover to her,^^ said Dick. ‘‘ And you may be sure 
that I shall find — or make — plenty of opportunities to rum 
down here from time to time. There is a coach every day" 
to Birmingham.’^ 

They had been walking slowly all this time. It was: 
night now, the last gleam of sunset bad faded, the star^ 
were lustrous overhead, and a yellow moonlight flooded the 
surrounding country. A long distance off, faint but clear 
in the dead hush of the summer night, they heard, but did. 
not mark, the beat of horses’ hoofs approaching them. 

“ I must go, Dick,” said Julia. “It is late, and they 
will wonder where I am. No, let me go now, while I have 
the strength. ” 

He took her in his arms again, and her head dropped oir 
his shoulder, and the tears began to run afresh. He held 
her close, but in that last moment of parting could find no 
word of comfort, only dumb caresses. The hoof -beats were 
near at hand now just beyond the bend of the road. They 
rounded the corner, and broke on the lovers’ ears with a 
loud and startling suddenness. The girl broke away, and 
ran through the gate into the field with a stifled sob. Dick 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


87 


turned, and walked down the road in the direction of the 
approaching horseman. The moon was at the full, and 
shone broadly upon his face and figure. 

“ Halloo cried the rider, in grulf challenge, and pull- 
ing his horse into Dick^s path, reined in. The young man 
looked up, and recognized Samson Mountain. Flight 
would have been as useless as ignominious, and it had never 
been Dick^s way out of any difficulty. 

‘‘ Well?” he asked, curtly, and stood his ground. 

Is that my daughter?” demanded Mountain, pointing 
with his heavy whip after the white figure glinting across 
the field. Spake the truth for once, though you be a 
Jieddy.” 

‘‘Ik’s a habit we have,” said Dick, quietly. His calm 
almost surprised himself. “ Yes.”' 

Mountain had always been of a heavy build, and of late 
years had increased enormously in girth and weight. But 
his wrath at this confirmation of his half guess stirred him 
so, that before the sound of the word had well died out on 
the air, he had dismounted, and came at the young man 
with his riding-whip fiourished above his head. 

“ Don^t do that, sir.” Dick spoke in a low voice, 
though quickly; and there was something in his tone which 
brought the weapon harmlessly to the farmer^s side again. 
“ It is your daughter. We love each other, and she has 
promised to be my wife.” 

Mountain staggered, as if the words had been a pistol 
bullet or a stab, and struck furiously. Quick as was 
Dick^s parry, he only half saved himself, his hat spun into 
the road, and the whip whistled within an inch of his ear. 
He made a step back, and stopped a second furious stroke. 
The whip broke in the old man^s hand, and he flung the 
remaining fragment from him with a curse. . 

“ I canT strike you, sir,” said Dick. “ You^re her fa- 
ther.” Mountain's choking breath filled in the pause, and 


88 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


Dick went on: ‘‘ You know well enough there^s not an- 
other man in England Pd take that from.'’^ 

“ YouYe a coward, like all your tribe/ ^ said Mountain. 

“ Not at all, I assure you, sir,^^ said Dick, calmly. ‘‘ If 
you like to send anybody else with that message. I’ll talk 
to him. Let us talk sensibly. What harm have I ever 
done you? Or my father, either? Why should two honest, 
families keep up this ridiculous story, which ought to have 
been buried ages back? Why not let by-gones be by-gones? 
I love your daughter. I am a young man yet, sir, with 
my way to make in the world, and I am going away to 
London, to study. I met your daughter to-night to say 
good-bye to her, and if you had not come I should have 
gone away and said nothing until I could come and claim 
her, with a home worthy of her to take her to^ But since 
you know, I speak now. We love each other, and intend 
to marry.” 

‘‘ Oh!” said Mountain. He had gone all on a sudden as 
cool as Dick, and nothing but his stertorous breathing^ 
hinted of the rage which filled him. ‘‘That’s it, is it? 
Then, if you’re finished, hear me. I ain’t got the gift 
the gab as free as you, but I can mek plain my meanin’,, 
p’raps. I’d rather see her a-lyin’ theer ” (he pointed with 
a trembling hand at the ground between them); “I’d 
rather lay her there, dead afore my eyes, an’ screw her in 
her coffin a’terward, than you or any o’ your kin should as 
much as look at her, wi’ my good will. And now you’ve 
got your answer, Mr. Fair an’ Fine. Remember it, an’' 
look out for yourself. For, by the Lord!” he went on^ 
with a solemn malignity doubly terrible in a man whose; 
passion was ordinarily so violent, “if iver I ketch you; 
round my house again, I’ll put a bullet atween thy ribs as 
sure as my naame’s Samson Mountain.” 

With this, he took his horse by the bridle, and passed 
through the gate, leaving the young man to his own refiec- 
tions. He took the beast to the stable, delivered him into 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


89 


the care of a servant, and made straight for the parlor, 
where his wife and Mrs. Rusker were seated at an early 
supper. 

“ YouVe back early, Sam,^^ said the former, rising to 
draw an additional chair to the table. ‘‘ Wilt have some 
tay, or shall Liza draw you a jug o^ beer?^^ 

Samson returned no answer, either to this or to Mrs. 
Rusker 's greeting. 

“ Lawk a mussy, what ails the man?^^ asked Mrs. 
Mountain, as Samson stood looking round the room. She 
had never seen such an expression on her husband’s face 
before. The skin was livid under its rude bronze, and his 
lips twitched strangely. 

‘‘ Wheer’s that wench of ourn?” he asked, after a 
second glance round the room. Mrs. Rusker’s heart 
jumped, and she held on tight to the arm -pieces of her 
chair. 

J ulia?” said Mrs. Mountain. “ Her’s about the house, 
I reckon. ” 

“ Call her here,” said Samson; and his wife wondering, 
but not daring to question, went to the door of the sitting- 
room. and screamed, “ Julia!” A servant girl came run- 
ning down-stairs at the call, and said that Miss Julia did 
not feel well, and had gone to bed. 

Patch her down,” said Samson, from the sitting-room, 
and the girl, on receipt of a confirmatory nod from Mrs. 
Mountain, went upstairs again. Samson took a chair and 
sat with his head bent forward and his arms folded, staring 
at the paper ornaments in the grate. 

Samson!” said his wife, appealingly, “ don’t skeer a 
body i’ thisnin. Whativer is the matter?” 

‘‘Hold thy chat,” said Samson. “ Thee’st know soon 
enough,” and the trio sat in silence until Julia entered the 
room. She was pale, and there were traces of tears on her 
cheeks, and Samson, as he glanced at her askance from un- 
der his heavy eyebrows before he rose, saw that she was 


90 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


struggling to repress some strong emotion. She advanced 
to kiss him, but he repelled her — not roughly — with his 
heavy hand upon her shoulder. 

“You wanted to see me, father?^ ^ she asked, trembling.. 

“ I sent for you.^^ 

Mrs. Rusker was in a state hf pitiable excitement, if any« 
body had had the leisure to notice her. 

“ Theer^s some ’at happened to-day as it’s fit an’ right as 
yo’ should know. I met ode Eaybould to-day i’ th’ Ex- 
change, an’ he tode me some’at as I’d long suspected, 
about his son Tom. I reckon you know what it was.” 

Julia knew, well enough. Tom Eaybould was a young^ 
farmer, a year or two older than herself. She had known 
him all her life, and he had been a school-fellow and chosen 
chum of her brother’s. He had shown unmistakable signs 
of affection for her, but had never spoken. He was a good 
fellow, according to common report, and she had a good 
deal of liking and respect for him, and a little pity, being 
a good girl, and no coquette. 

“I see thee understandest, ” said Samson. “I tode 
th’ ode man as he might look on it as settled, an’ Tom ’ll 
be here to-morrow. He’s a likely lad, an’ he’ll have all 
the Bush Farm when his father goes, as must be afore 
long, i’ the course o’ nature. The two farms ’ll goo very 
well in a ring fence. Theer’s no partic’lar hurry, as I 
know on, an’ we’ll ha’ the weddin’ next wik, or the wik 
after.” 

The girl’s breast was laboring cruelly, in spite of the 
hand that strove to still it. 

“ Father!” she said. “ You don’t mean it!” 

“ Eh?” said Samson. “ I ginerally mean what I say, 
my wench. I should ha’ thout as yo’d ha’ known that by 
this time.” 

He stopped there, for J ulia, but for her mother’s arm,, 
would have fallen. 

“ You great oaf!” cried Mrs. Mountain, irritated for 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


91 


'Once into open rebellion. “ Oh, it's like a man, the 
stupid, hulkin' creeturs as they are, to come an' frighten 
the life out of a poor maid i' that style." 

‘‘ Theer, theer!" said Samson, with the same heavy and 
threatening tranquillity he had borne throughout the in- 
terview. Tek her upstairs." 

He sat down again, and without another word filled and 
lit his church- warden and stared through the smoke- wreaths 
at the gate. 


V. 

Mrs. Jennie Rusker, who was half dead with fear of 
an expose of her part in this unlucky love affair, was ad- 
ditionally prostrated by the dire reversal of all her hopes 
by’ Samson Mountain's ultimatum. Mrs. Mountain, with 
the aid of a female servant, supported Julia upstairs, and 
JSamson smoked on stolidly, taking no note whatever of 
the visitor's presence. Still in doubt of what Samson 
might or might not know, and fearing almost to breathe 
lest any reminder of her presence should call down his 
wrath upon her, she listened to the tramping and the 
muffled noises overhead, until they ceased, and then, 
^gathering courage from his continued apathy, slipped from 
the room and left the house. 

She got home and went to bed, and passed an intermina- 
ble night in tossing to and fro, and bewailing the untoward 
iate of the two children. Dawn came at last, though it 
had seemed as if it never would break again, and, for the 
first time for many a year, the first gleam of sunlight saw 
her dressed and down-stairs. She felt nervous and ill, and 
having brewed for herself a huge jorum of tansy tea, sat 
down over this inspiring beverage, and tried to pull her 
scattered wits together and think out some way of untan- 
gling the skein of difficulty with which she had to deal. The 
danger was pressing, and if she had been herself the pool^ 


92 


JULIA AND HEE KOMEO. 


love-sick girl who lay a mile away, stifling her sobs lest they 
should reach her father^s ears, and vainly calling on her 
lover ^s name, she would scarcely have been more miserable^ 
One thing was clear. Dick must be warned, and his jour- 
ney to London postponed by some device. He might lie 
hidden for a day or two in Birmingham, and Julia be- 
smuggled there and secretly married. It was no time for- 
half measures, and whatever was done should be done 
quickly and decisively. At this idea, at once romantic and. 
practical, Mrs. Jennie^’s spirits revived. 

“ Samson^ll disown Julia, I know. Her^ll never see a 
penny o^ his money. An'’ I doubt as Abel Eeddy^ll do the 
same*wi^ Dick. He^s just as hard and bitter as th-’ other,, 
on^y quieter wi^ it. Well, they sha^nH want while I^m 
alive, or after my death neither, and Dick hid made his 
own way with nobody’s help. Ill write to him, and find 
somebody to take the letter. I won^t go myself, at this 
hour o'’ the day.-’'’ 

She concocted a letter and sealed it, and putting on her 
bonnet, sallied out to find a messenger. Fate was so far 
propitious that scarce a hundred yards from her door she 
met Ichabod Bubb, bound for his morning’s work at Percy 
Hall Farm. Ichabod was bent, and gnarled, and twisted 
now, stiff in all his joints and slow of movement, but his 
quaint visage bore the same look of uncertain and rather 
wistful humor which had marked it in earlier times. 

Morning, mum,” he said, with a stiff-necked nod at. 
Mrs. Jennie. 

Good-mornin’, Mr. Bubb,” said the old lady. Ichabod 
beamed at this sudden and unexpected ceremonial of title, 
and straightened his back. 

“ You’m afoot early, mum.” 

“ Why, yes. But it’s such a beautiful morning; it’s a 
shaame to lie abed a time like this.” 

“ So many folks, so many ways o’ thinkin’,” said the. 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


93 ^ 


ancient one; “ not as it's a sin as I often commits, nay- 
ther, 'cos why, I don't get the chance. ’' 

“ I've got a bit o' business as I want done, Mr. Bubb,"’ 
said Mrs. Busker; “ if ye don't mind earnin' a shillin'." 

“ Why," returned Ichabod, “ I don't know as I've got 
any not to say rewted objection to makin' a shillin'." 

“ You're goin' to the farm?" Ichabod nodded. “ Then 
I want you to take this note to Mr. Richard. But mind,, 
you must get it to him private. Nobody else must know.. 
D'you understand?" 

“ I'm all theer, missus," responded Ichabod. 

“ Then there's the note, an' there's the shillin'. An' if 
you're back in two hours you shall have a pint o' beer."' 
Ichabod took the note and the shilling, and clattered off 
with a ludicrous show of dispatch, and the old lady re- 
turned to her sitting-room to await the result of his mes- 
sage. It came in less than the appointed time, and disap- 
pointed her terribly. Ichabod had ascertained that Dick 
had started half an hour before his arrival at the farm for 
Birmingham, and would only return to-morrow night to 
sleep and take away his luggage on the following morning. 

“ And you come to me wi' a message like that, y' odo 
gone-off!" said the exasperated old woman. “ You might 
ha' caught him up i' the time as you've wasted cornin' back 
here. " 

“ Caught him up," said Ichabod, with a glance at his; 
legs. “ Yis, likely, like a cow might ketch a race-hoss.. 
I'm a gay fine figure, missus, to ketch up the best walker 
i' the country-side." 

Mrs. Jennie was a woman, and therefore to offer her 
reason as an antidote to unreasoning anger was merely to 
heap fuel on flame. 

‘‘ Ah!" she said, reasonably enraged with the whole 
masculine half of her species, you're like the rest on 
'em." 

Then I'm sorry for the rest on 'em," said Ichabod, 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


m 

whoever they may he.^^ Here Mrs. Jennie shut the door 
upon him, leaving him in the street, and retired to her 
sitting-room. But with beer to be gained by boldness, 
Ichabod was leonine in courage. He knocked, and the 
summons brought the old lady to the door again. Ichabod 
spoke no word, but writhed his twisted features into a grin 
which expressed at once humorous deprecation and ex- 
pectancy, and rubbed the back of his veiny hand across liis 
bristly lips., 

‘‘Go round to the brewus,^^ said Mrs. Jenny; “ you^ll 
find the maid there. It^s all you’re fit for, ye guzzlin’ old 
idiot.” 

Ichabod retired, elate. 

“ Her tongue’s a stinger; but. Lord bless thee, Ichabod, 
her bark’s a long sight worse than her bite. An’ her beer’s 
main good. ” 

Mrs. Jennie, meanwhile, retired to the sitting-room, and 
there sat immersed in gloom. Things looked black for her 
young protegees, and fate was against them. With that 
ourious interest in familiar trifles which comes with any fit 
of hopelessness or despondency, she sat looking at the 
furniture of the room, and the pictures which decorated the 
walls. Among these latter was a work of her own hands, 
her masterpiece, a reproduction in colored wool of a Ger- 
man engraving of the last scene of “ Romeo and Juliet.” 
There was a pea-green Capulet paralytically embracing a 
sky-blue Montagu in the foreground, with a dissolving 
view of impossibly constructed servitors of both houses and 
the Count Paris, with six strongly accented bridges to his 
nose and a worsted tear upon his cheek, in the background. 
Under this production was worked in white, upon a black 
ground, the legend which Mrs. Rusker mournfully repeated 
as she gazed on it — 

“ For never was a story of more woe, 

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo;” 


JULIA AND HEK KOMEO. 


95 


and as she spoke the words an inspiration flashed into her 
mind. She had her plan. 

The new-born idea so possessed her that she could not 
sit or rest. It drove her out, as the' gad-fly drove lo, to 
devious wanderings in the neighboring lanes, and as she 
walked and walked, finding some little ease in the unusual 
and incessant exercise, she drew nearer and nearer to the 
Mountain Farm. As she paused on a little eminence and 
looked toward it, the distant church-bell struck clear across 
the intervening fields, proclaiming nine o’clock. 

“ Thank the Lord,” said the old woman, “ I can go 
now. I dussent go too early. They might suspect.” 

She made straight for the house, and found Mrs. Mount- 
ain alone. Samson was' afield, and in answer to Mrs. 
Busker’s inquiries regarding Julia, Mrs. Mountain tearfully 
informed her that the poor girl was too ill to come down- 
stairs, and had not eaten a crumb of the tempting break- 
fast prepared and sent to her room for her. Mrs. Mountain 
was voluble in condemnation of her husband’s lack of wit 
in his announcement of the matrimonial scheme he had 
formed for the girl, and Mrs. Jennie was fluent and honest 
in sympathy. Might she see the girl? Julia was fond of 
her, and her counsels might bring some comfort. Mrs. 
Mountain yielded a ready assent, and the old lady went up 
to the girl’s room, and entering on the languid summons 
which followed her knock, saw Julia seated at the window, 
listless, dejected, and tearful. The tears flowed even more 
freely at the sight of her, and the girl sobbed on her old 
friend’s breast in full abandonment to the first great grief 
of her life. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Jennie, when this gush of sorrow 
was over, “ take a bit o’ heart. Things is rarely as bad as 
they seem; an’ there’s help at hand always if we on’y know 
where to look for it. ” 

There was more meaning, to Julia’s thinking, in the 
tone in which this commonplace condolence was delivered 


96 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


than in the words themselves. Mrs. Busker’s manner was 
big with mystery. 

“ Now, my darlin’, I know you’m a brave gal, and can 
act accordin’ when there’s rayson for it. I’ve got a plan 
as’ll save you yet, if on’y you’ve got the courage. ” 

Julia’s clasped hands and eager look encouraged her to 
proceed. 

My dear, you remember ‘Borneo and Juliet’? You 
remember how Juliet got the sleepin’ draught, an’ took 
it?” Julia’s look was one of wonder, pure and simple, 
now. “ That’s my plan, my dear, an’ the Dudley Divil 
can do it for us, if on’y you’ll ha’ the courage to tek it. 
Not as I mean as you need be buried afore Dick comes to 
you. We shouldn’t go as far' as that. But I’ll get the 
stuff, an’ if it’ll send you to sleep, an’ they’ll think as 
you’re dead, an’ then I’ll tell ’em how you an’ Dick loved 
each other so’s you couldn’t bear to part wi’ him, an’ the 
fear of it’s killed you. That’ll soften their hard hearts, my 
-dear. Old Beddy knows all about it — that’s why he’s send- 
in’ Dick away to London, and I’ll get him fetched back to 
see the last o’ you, an’ I’ll mek your father an’ his father 
shaake hands, an’ then you’ll come to, an’ after that what 
can they do but marry you to Dick, an’ forget all that rub- 
bidge about the brook, an’ live in peace together, as decent 
iolk should do. ” 

Julia’s reception of this brilliant scheme, which Mrs, 
Busker developed with a volubility which left no oppor- 
tunity for detailed objection, was to fall back in her chair 
^nd begin to cry anew at the sheer hopeless absurdity of it. 

“ What’s the matter wi’ the wench?” demanded Mrs. 
Busker, almost sternly. “ Come, come,” she continued, 
her brief auger fading at the sight of Julia’s distress, 
have a bit o’ sperrit. Now, will you try it? Spake the 
word, an’ I’ll goo to the Divil this minute.” 

This wholesale self-abandonment in the cause of love 
produced no effect on Julia, except to frighten her. Mrs. 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


07 


busker argued and reasoned, but finding her fears too ob- 
durate to be moved by any such means, left the house in 
dudgeon, whereat poor Julia only cried the more. But 
Mrs. Rusker^s confidence in her plan was unshaken, and 
her persistency unchecked. She would save the silly girl 
against her will, since it must be so, and half an hour after 
she had crossed the Mountain threshold she was in her 
trap, en route for the dwelling of the wizard. 

She found that celebrity alone, and opened fire on him 
at once. 

Rufus, I want thy help, an’ I’m willin’ to pay fur it.” 
The necromancer’s fishy eye brightened. Things were go- 
ing poorly with him, the rising generation followed newer 
lights unevident in his earlier days, and his visitors were 
mostly of Mrs. Rusker’s age, and were getting fewer day 
by day. 

“ My skill’s at your service, ma’am, such as it is,” he 
answered, with gravity. 

“I want some’at as’d send a body to sleep— mek ’em 
sleep for a long time, wi’outhurtin’ ’em. Can you do it?” 

‘‘ Why, yis; I could do that much, I think.” His ton's 
and manner intimated vaguely how much more he could 
have done, and his disappointment at the facility of his 
task. “But,” he added, prudently, “it’s a job as ain’t 
s’easy as you might fancy. ” 

Mrs. Rusker laid a sovereign on the table. 

“Wilt do it for that?” she asked. 

The wizard stole a look at her. She was obviously very 
much in earnest. 

“ The hingredients,” he said, “ is hard to find, and 
harder to mix in doo perportions. ” 

“ I must have it now, and at once,” said Mrs. Rusker. 

“That,” said Rufus, “ain’t possible.” Mrs. Jennie 
laid a second piece of gold beside the first. “ It’s a danger- 
bus bisness, missus,” he went on. “ Theer’s noo-fangled 
laws about. ’Twas only last wik as that young upstart^ 

4 


98 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


Doctor Hodges, comes an^ threatens me with persecution 
as a rogue an^ vagabond, a-obtainin^ money under false 
pertenses for practicing my lawful an^ necessary art. Why, 
it ain^t so long since I cured his mother o^ the rheumatiz, 
as is more nor he can dew, wi’ all his drugs an’ the pestle 
an’ mortar o’er his door. ” 

‘‘You ought to know as you’re safe wi’ me, Rufus,’^ 
said Mrs. Rusker. “ Who should I tell? Why, I should 
tell o’ myself tew, at that raate; an’ is that likely?” 

“ It’s dangerous, missus,” repeated the wizard. 

“ Well, if you won’t, I must try them as wull,” said 
Mrs. Jennie, rising and taking 'up the coins. 

“ I didn’t say as I wouldn’t,” returned Rufus. “ Theer’s 
no call to be so uppish. But if I tek a chance like that I 
expect to be paid for it.” 

“Two pound ud mek it. wuthyour while to do more 
than that.” 

“ I’ll dew it,” said the wizard. “ Give us the money.” 

“ Wheer’s the stuff?” 

“ Why, it ain’t made yet. D’you think as I can percure 
a precious hessence like that all of a minute?” 

“ Then mek it, an’ I’ll gie you the money.” 

“ Gi’ me a pound in advance, an’ I’ll bring it to you.” 
And on that understanding the bargain was made and the 
time fixed for the delivery of the potion. The intervening 
time was filled in by the astute wizard journeying to a 
neighboring town and procuring from a chemist a sleeping 
draught, which he paid for out of Mrs. Rusker’s sovereign. 
He turned up at Laburnum Cottage at the stipulated hour, 
handed over the draught (having previously washed off the 
chemist’s label), received his second sovereign, and de- 
parted. 

Mrs. Rusker, with the fateful bottle in the bosom of her 
dress, betook herself again to Mountain Farm. Her un- 
feigned interest in the patient, and the intimacy she had so- 
long enjoyed with the whole family, made the house almost 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


99 


as free to her as was her own, and when she took possession 
of Julia in the capacity of nurse she was made welcome, 
and the poor girl’s other attendants hoped much from her 
ministration. Julia was undoubtedly very ill, so ill that 
even Samson Mountain forbore to force her to descend to 
the parlor in which Mr. Tom Haybould nervously awaited 
her coming, and where, oh Samson’s return from his 
daughter’s chamber, the pair sat and drank their beer to- 
gether in miserable silence, broken by spasmodic attempts 
at conversation regarding crops and politics. The doctor 
had been called in, and, knowing nothing of the grief which 
was the poor girl’s only ailment, had been too puzzled by 
the symptoms of her malady to be of any great service. 
She was feverish, excited, with a furred tongue and a hot 
skin. He had prescribed a mild tonic and departed. Mrs. 
Jennie, intent on the execution of her plan, gained solitary 
charge of her patient by telling Mrs. Mountain that her 
attendance on her daughter had already told upon her, and 
advising a few hours’ rest. 

• ‘‘I don’t feel very well,” Mrs. Mountain confessed. 
^‘‘Kot a wink o’ sleep have I had iver since Samson came 
home last night. Nor him nayther, for the matter o’ that, 
though he tried to desave me by snorin’, whinever I spoke 
to him; an’ as for any sympathy — well, you know him 
aforetime, Jennie — I might as well talk to that theer 
poker.” 

Then Jennie was fluent in condolence, and at last got the 
old lady out of the room. 

When did you take your medicine last, my dear?” she 
asked the patient. Ain’t it time as you had another 
drop?” 

It doesn’t do me any good,” said the patient, fretful- 
ly. She knew better herself what was wrong with her 
than anybody else could guess, and only longed passionately 
to be alone and free to think and cry over her lost love and 
broken hopes. 


100 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


Why, my dear, you've oii'y took one dose yit," said 
Machiavel. “ You must give it time. I'll pour you out 
another." Her back was toward the patient as she clat- 
tered about among the glasses on the table with a shaking 
hand. She poured out the wizard's potion, the vial clink- 
ing against the edge of the glass like a castanet, and her 
heart beating so chat she almost feared Julia would hear it. 
The girl, at first, pettishly refused the draught, but Mrs. 
Jennie, in her guilty agitation, made short work of her ob- 
jections, and poured it down her throat almost by main 
force. 

Maids must do as their elders bid 'em," she said, as 
she returned the glass to its place. 

It doesn't taste the same," moaned the patient. 

You're like all th' other sick folk I iver nursed. As 
full o' fancies as you can stick," said Mrs. Jennie. ‘‘ Lie 
quiet, and try an' go to sleep. " 

The girl lay silent, and Mrs. Jennie, more than half wish- 
ing the whole business had never been begun, sat and list- 
ened to her breathing. She stirred and sighed once or 
twice, but after awhile lay so utterly still that the old lady 
ventured to approach the bed. Julia's face was almost as 
white as her pillow, and her breath was so light that it 
hardly stirred the coverlet above her bosom. 

It's a-workin'," said Mrs. Rusker. 


VI. 

Mrs. Jennie's simple faith in the talents of Rufus Smith 
underwent a severe trial during the ensuing night. She 
had left J ulia still sleeping, and the memory of the last 
glance she had bestowed upon the white face in the light of 
the carefully shaded candle, haunted her all night, and 
roused a foreboding too dismal tp be expressed, or even 
lormulated in definite thought. The match-maker lay and 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


101 


trembled all night at that terrible idea, and again the pale- 
faced dawn visited a sleepless pillow, and found her hag- 
gard with anxiety and lack of sleep. Juliet’s query to the 
Friar had been, “ What if the potion should not work?’' 
but Mrs. Jennie’s terrified inquiry of her own soul was,. 
“ What if it had worked too well?” AVhat if it had killed 
Julia in very deed? It was too horrible to happen, Mrs. 
Jennie said to herself. Too horrible to think of. But, if 
it had happened, she would have nothing else to think of 
all her life, and the fancy drove her nearly mad. 

She was dressed and afoot even earlier than on the pre- 
ceding morning. She crept out and encircled the Mountain 
Farm in a radius of a mile or thereabouts, looking anxious- 
ly toward it at every step, as if its silent walls might speak 
comfort or confirm her fears, even at that distance. The 
house looked peaceful enough amid its surrounding trees 
under the tranquilly broadening light of dawn, but Mrs. 
Busker knew how ghastly^ white the face of the poor child 
she loved as her own might look in that roseate glow. 
Presently a thin line of smoke curled from a chimney on 
the noiseless air. The farm was waking to its daily round 
of life. A burly figure on horseback came toward her as 
she stood on a litte eminence. She waited long enough to 
identify Samson Mountain, and hid among the ferns and 
bushes until the horse’s hoof-beats had clattered swiftly by 
on the stony road below her, and faded in the distance. 

Time crept on, slow but inexorable. She longed, as she 
had never longed before for anything, for the courage to 
go to the farm-house and ask tidings of Julia. But her 
fear was greater than her longing, and she roamed at ran- 
dom in a circle, never losing sight of the house, but not; 
daring to approach it or be seen from its windows. She 
dreaded what might be the news to greet her there. She 
feared her own face, with its haggard lines of sleeplessness 
and anxious watching. At last, from the very depths of 
her misery, she plucked the heart of despairing hope, and 


102 


JULIA AND HER ROMEO. 


made for the farm. The farm laborers and country folk 
she met stared after her. Even their bovine understand- 
ings were troubled by her scared 'face. She scarcely saw 
them, or anything but the farm-house, which drew her now 
with an influence as strong as its repulsion had been an 
hour ago. She entered the house by the back door, and 
made straight for the sitting-room. Mrs. Mountain was 
there, arranging a tray, on which were tea and jam and 
other homely luxuries. She wore her ordinary look of 
placid contentment, and at the sight of her quiet face Mrs. 
Rusker dropped panting, with a vague, unformulated feel- 
ing of relief, into a chair. 

“ Sakes alive! Whativer is the matter? demanded Mrs. 
Mountain. 

“ Julia,^^ panted the visitor. “ How^s Juliar^^ 

Why,^^ said Mrs. Mountain, “ how should her be?^^ 

Is she awake asked Mrs. Jennie, more calmly. 

‘‘No. Her was sleepin' when I seed her, jist for a min- 
ute, a hour ago. I^m jist goin' upstairs wi^ some breakfast 
for her. Well, I declare, yo look as pale as a ghost. What^s 
the matter with you?^^ 

“ Oh, Pve passed a miserable night, said Mrs. Jennie, 
in unconscious quotation from her favorite poet. “ 1 
could uT sleep a-thinkin’ o’ Julia.” 

“ Well, then, you do look poorly,” said her hostess, with 
all her motherly heart warmed by this solicitude for her 
daughter. “ Why, theer’s no cause, to fret i’ that way. 
To be sure, Samson might ha’ knowed better than to blun- 
der such a thing as that right out, but, then, he’s a man, 
and that’d account for a’most anything. Married life 
might teach ’em better, you’d think, and yet after nigh on 
forty year on it he knows no more about women folk than 
any bachelor i’ Barfield. Theer, tek your bonnet off, an’ 
ye ^ cup o’ tay, an’ then you can goo upstairs wi’ 
me and see the wenoh. ” 

Mrs. Jenny grateiuily accepted the proffered tea, and. 


JULIA AND HEfi ROMEO. 


loa 

having drunk it, much to her inward refreshment, accom- 
panied Mrs. Mountain upstairs. As the latter had said the 
girl was sleeping still, and Mrs. Rusker saw her position 
had not changed by a hair’s breadth. She lay like a carven 
statue, her face marble white in the clear morning light. 

“ I’m a’most doubtful about wakin’ her,” said her 
mother. “ Theer’s no doubt as Samson gi’en her a shock, 
an’ sleep’s good for her. But her’s had welly fifteen hours 
of it now, if she’s been asleep all the time. Julia, my 
love,” she said, softly, almost in the sleeper’s ear. “ My 
sakes, how pale her is. Jennie! come here!” 

They both bent above her. Mrs. Busker’s heart was 
beating like a muffled drum, and seemed, to her own ears, 
to fill the house with its pulsation. 

“Julia!” said Mrs. Mountain again, in a louder voice, 
and shook the girl with a tremulous hand, “ Julia!” 

The white eyelids did not even stir. 

“ My blessid! Julia! Don’t skeer a body i’ this way!’^ 
She shook the girl again. “ Jennie! whativer’s come to 
the silly wenchr” 

Mrs. Jennie was more frightened, and with better reason, 
than her companion. Julia’s marble pallor and the awful 
stillness of her form — the keenest glance could not detect a 
quiver in the face or a heave of the bosom — almost stilled 
that exigent pulse within her own breast with a suddea 
anguish of despair. 

“Oh, Jennie, she’s a-dyin’!” 

Mrs. Mountain’s scream rang through the house, and 
startled every soul within it, except that marble figure on 
the bed. Hurried steps came up the stairs, J;he heavy 
tread of a man, the light patter of women’s feet, and the 
room filled as if by magic. 

“Retch a doctor,” screamed Mrs. Jennie; “Julia’s a- 
dyin’!” 

Samson Mountain stood for one moment with his hands 
aloft and his eyes glaring at his daughter. Then he dropped 


104 


JULIA AKD HER ROMEO. 


with a sobbing groan into a chair, with his head in his 
hands. There was a general scream from the vvomyn. 
One, more serviceable than the rest, called from the win- 
dow to a gaping yokel below in the yard, and bade him ride 
for help. Her face and voice froze him for a moment, but 
he caucfht the words “ Miss Julia, ^ and two minutes after 
he was astride a broad-backed plow-horse, making for the 
distant village. 

Samson Mountain sat with his face hidden and spoke no 
word; at the sight of him his wife’s face had turned to sud- 
den rage, and she stood over him like a ruffled hen, and 
clacked commination of masculine imbecility, intermixed 
with wild plaints for her child. Julia slept through the 
tumult as she had slept through the calm, and Mrs. Jennie, 
Itneeling beside her with her face in the bed-clothes, moaned 
love and penitent despair. Samson raised his head at last, 
.and looked with a dazed stare first at his daughter and then 
at his wife, and left the room without a word, pursued by a 
hail-storm of reproach. He went into the yard, and pottered 
aimlessly about, looking old and broken on a sudden. The 
sound of horse’s hoofs routed liim; it was the rustic mes- 
senger returning. 

“ Where’s the doctor?” demanded Samson. 

“ Gone to Heydon Hey. What am I to dew?” 

“ Follow him an’ fetch him back. Hast not gumption 
enough to know that:” asked Samson, wearily. The man 
started again, and Samson began once more his purposeless 
wanderings about the yard. He had no sense of time or 
place, only a leaden weight on heart and limb, which in all 
his life he had never known before. He leaned his elbows 
on the fence of the fold yard, and became conscious of a 
running figure which neared him rapidly. He watched it 
stupidly, and it was within twenty yards of him before he 
recognized it. Dick Keddy, dust and mud to the collar, 
iatless, and panting. 

“ Julial” he gasped. ‘‘ Tell me, is it true?” 


JULIA AND HER RO.MEO. 


105 


“Julia’s dyiri’,” said Samson. “My God!” he cried^ 
with sudden passion, as if his own voice had unlocked the 
sealed fountain of his grief, “ my little gell’s a dyin’!” 

“ Mr. Mountafn,” said Dick, “I love her, you know I 
love her. Let me see her.” His voice, broken with fatigue 
and emotion, his streaming eyes, his outstretched hands, all 
pleaded with his words. 

“ It’s all one who sees her now,” said Samson, and 
leaned his elbows on the fence again. Dick took the de- 
spairing speech for a permission, and entered the house. 
At the bottom of the stairs, in the otherwise deserted hall, 
he met Mrs. Jennie, a very moving statue of terror. 

“ Dick,” she said, clutching the young man by the arm, 
“ I can’t a-bear it any longer. Come in here wi’ me.” She 
pulled him into a side room, and sitting down, abandoned 
herself to weeping, wringing her hands, and moaning. 

“ I can’t a-bear it any longer,” she repeated. “ I must 
tell somebody, an’ I’ll tell you. It’s all my wicked, cruel 
fault.” 

The old woman was so crazed with her secret that she 
would have spoken in shadow of the gibbet. Kamblingly 
and incoherent!}’, with many breaks for tears, and protes- 
tations, and self-accusation, she told her story. 

“ I’ve killed her, Dick. But it was for your sake and 
hers as I done it. I reckon they’ll hang me, an’ it’ll serve 
me right.” She besought him not to betray her, and, in 
the same breath, announced her intention to surrender her- 
self at once to the parish constable; and, indeed, between 
fear, and remorse, and sorrow for the hopless love she had 
striven to befriend, was nearly mad. Dick heard her with 
such amazement as may be best imagined, and, suddenly, 
with a cry that rang in her ears for many a long day after- 
ward, ran from her and scaled the stairs to Julia’s room, 
led thither by the sound of Mrs. Mountain’s weeping. The 
old woman stared, as well she might, at the intrusion, with 


106 


JULIA AND HEK ROMEO. 


a wonder which for a moment conquered sorrow. He went 
straight to the bed, and leaned over the stark figure upon it. 

She^s not dead yet/^ he said, more to himself than to 
the grief -stricken mother. Mrs. Mountaih heard the words, 
and clutched his arm. He turned to her, Trust me,^^ he 
said, “ and 111 save her.^^ The wild hope in the mother's 
eyes was terrible to see. “ I love her," said Dick. “ You 
will trust me? Do as I bid you, and you shall have Julia 
back in an hour." 

Samson Mountain meanwhile wandered in the same pur» 
poseless fashion about the farm, and held dumb converse 
with himself. He was a rough man, something of a brute 
— a good deal of an animal — but animals have their affec- 
tions, and he loved Julia as well as it was in his nature to 
love anything. It was ingrained in him by nature and. by 
years of unquestioned domination to bully and browbeat all 
defenseless people; but Julia, the most defenseless of his 
surroundings, had been treated always with a lighter hand. 
Child-like, she had taken advantage of her immunity in 
many little ways, and though Samson had never forborne 
to bluster at her girlish insubordination, he rather liked it 
than not, and relished his daughter's independence and 
spirit. Julia was the only creature in the household who 
dared to hold her own against him. He was proud of her 
beauty and what he called her “ lurning," and, more or 
less grumblingly, petted her a good deal, and would have 
spoiled her had she been of spoilable material. But till 
this heavy blow fell he had never sounded the depths of his 
own affection for her. The suddenness of the blow stunned 
and bewildered him. He remembered his words to Dick 
during their stormy interview in the road, when he had said 
that he would rather see Julia dead than married to him. 
Had Providence taken him at his word? He did not say it, 
he did not even think it consciously, but he would have 
submitted to almost any conceivable indignity at the hands 
of Abel Reddy hiniself, to have felt his daughter's arms 


JULIA AKD HEK ROMEO. 


lor 

about his neck again. Little incidents of Julia’s past life 
were fresh and vivid in his memory. He had forgotten 
many of them, years ago, but they sprung up in his mind 
now, like things of yesterday. 

He had wandered back to the front of the house, and sat 
upon the rustic bench beside the porch, with his elbows 
propped upon his knees, and his eyes hidden in his shaking 
hands, when a voice fell on his ear. 

“ Neighbor!” 

He raised his head. Abel Eeddy stood before him. With 
something of the old instinct of hatred he had believed to 
be unconquerable he rose and straightened himself before 
the hereditary enemy. 

‘‘ Neighbor,” said Reddy again. The word was pacific, 
but Mountain’s blurred eyes, dim with pain and dazzled by 
the sunlight, could not see the pity in his old enemy's face, 
and he waited doggedly. “ It’s come to my ears as you’re 
i’ sore trouble. So am I. Your trouble’s mine, though 
not so great for me as it is for you. I was wi’ Dick when 
he heard o’ your daughter’s danger, an’ what I’d suspected 
a long time I know now to be the truth. I did my best to 
keep ’em apart — it was that as Dick was going to London 
for. It seemed to behoove me to come to you and offer you 
my hand i’ your affliction. I take shame to myself that I 
didn’t mek an effort to end our quarrel long ago. We’re 
gettin’ on in life, Mr. Mountain, and we’ve got th’ excuse 
o’ hot blood no longer. ” 

Therewith he held out his hand, and Samson, with hang- 
ing head, took it with a growl, which might have been 
anathema or blessing. And as the life-long enemies stood 
so linked, a window was suddenly opened above, and Mrs. 
Mountain’s voice screamed to her husband — 

‘‘ Samson! Her’s alive! Her’s awake!” Both men 
looked up, and beheld an unexpected picture framed by the 
open window, Dick violently embraced by Mrs. Mountain, 
and submitting to the furious assault with obvious good-wilL 


108 


JULIA Ara HER ROMEO. 


“ When the liquor^s out, why clink the cannikin?’^ The 
story of Julia and her Eomeo, like all other stories, had 
found its end, and merged a little later into the history of 
Mr. and Mrs. Richard Reddy. The family feud was 
buried, and Samson and Abel made very passable grand- 
fathers and dwelt in peace one with another. Dick never 
told a living soul, not even Julia herself, of the stratagem 
by which Mrs. Jennie had succeeded in uniting them, and 
Mrs. Jennie, by complete reticence on the subject, disproved 
the time-worn calumny which declares woman^s inability 
to keep a secret. 


THE EISTD. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


I. 

“ MY UNFORTUNATE CLIENT."" 

“ God bless my soul, one might as well try to find one"s 
way in a rabbit-burrow!"" 

The tall and elderly gentleman who was thus angrily 
muttering to himself in the dim corridors of the Law Courts 
was rather a good-looking person, with well-cut features, a 
white mustache, and steel-gray eyes, but with some omin- 
ously ill-tempered lines where the eyebrows met. And if 
this search of his for Appeal Court No. 1 seemed a perfectly 
hopeless thing, it was to be attributed rather to his own im- 
patience than to any negligence on the part of the officials. 
He would not wait for explanations; after each brief direc- 
tion, off he would set once more; occasionally getting 

warm,"" quite as the children say, and then again finding 
on the wall some bewildering instructions to witnesses. At 
last, however, he ran full tilt against his own solicitor. 

‘‘ Good-morning, Lord Amesleigh,"" said this latter, who 
had little of the ordinary ferret-look of a solicitor, but was 
rather portly, and bland, and suave. Come to hear the 
appeal argued:"" 

‘‘ I am come to hear tbe appeal; but what there is to 
argue about I can not for the life of me imagine,"" said the 
elderly gentleman with some petulance. “ Why, every 
man- jack of a lawyer I have put the case before has told 
me that it is as clear as daylight — that the other side 

( 109 ) 


110 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


haven't the ghost of a leg to stand on. Indeed, their 
unanimity has been rather suspicious, to tell you the truth. 
And when I have said to them, ‘ Well, but if I am so ob- 
viously in the right, why did decide against me?' then 

the invariable answer has been, ‘ Oh, is an old fool. 

You're quite sure to win now. If had decided in your 

favor, you might have had cause for alarm. All his deci- 
sions are reversed on appeal.' Well now, that is a nice 
kind of person to have on the Bench!" 

The solicitor, even in talking to an injured client, was 
bound to maintain the dignity of the law. 

‘‘ It was simply a misfortune that he should have tried 
the case," said he; “ for that is not the kind of thing he is 
familiar with. It was transferred to the Queen's Bench 
Division quite unexpectedly; and then our leading counsel 
was a Chancery barrister; and his junior —well — " 

Where is this infernal Court?" said his lordship, with 
a touch of impatience; he had heard these explanations be- 
fore. 

The bland Mr. Burgoyne forthwith conducted his client 
into the hushed court, where there was the usual motley 
little crowd of hangers-on seated at hap-hazard among young^ 
barristers in wig and gown, with three old gentlemen, also 
in wig and gown, on a raised bench. One of those young 
barristers, puffy, with spectacles, was declaiming away with 
emphatic voice and uplifted arm, as if he were addressing 
a more than ordinarily vacuous jury; but the three old gen- 
tlemen didn't seem to mind: one was looking at a book, 
another turning over some papers, and he in the middle ap- 
peared to have found a hair in the point of his pen. 

“ Does that fool of a fellow," said Lord Amesleigh, 
looking peevishly at the haranguing barrister, “does he 
think that judges are to be impressed by pot-house elo- 
quence?" 

“ It's a way some of them get into," the solicitor said 
in an apologetic under-tone. 


EOMEO AKD JULIET. Ill 

He talks as if lie were going on till Doomsday, When 
does our case come onr^^ 

“ It is the next on the list; and I should think this one 
will be over shortly. Won't you take a seat. Lord Ames- 
leigh.^ There may be some little delay, you know." 

His lordship was just about to pass round to secure a 
place on one of the benches when there entered by the op- 
posite door, and accompanied by two friends, a lady of 
somewhat distinguished presence, and dressed in the ex- 
treme of fashion. »She was probably about five-and-forty; 
handsome in a way; and with an air that seemed to say that 
she was extremely well able to take care of herself. Now, 
whether this Mrs. Laxbourne, having driven into the City to 
ask her lawyers how the appeal was likely to go, had been 
induced to look into the court for a moment as a mere mat- 
ter of curiosity, or whether she had come to hear the case 
outright. Lord Amesleigh did not stay to inquire. The in- 
stant he caught a glimpse of her, he said to his solicitor — 

“ The mere sight of that poisonous witch sickens me. 
I'm off. Will you send me word as soon as the decision is 
known? I shall be at the Carlton. " 

Yes, certainly," Mr. Burgoyne made answer. “ I will 
send along one of my clerks as soon as judgment is given." 

“ Very well," said Lord Amesleigh, and he at once left 
the court by the door opposite to that by which Mrs. Lax- 
bourne had entered. 

It was not, however, till well past midday that the mes- 
senger arrived at the Carlton Club. Lord Amesleigh came 
to see him in the hall; and there was a look of severe 
scrutiny in his lordship's face that the young man did not 
at all like. 

“ I am very sorry, my lord — " he stammered. 

“ But what is it? What is the result? Let's hear at 
once." 

The young man hesitated, and there was a kind of be- 
seeching look in liis eyes. 


112 


KOMEO Al^D JULIET. 


** I am very sorry, my lord — but — but the appeal has 
been dismissed — and with costs. 

Dismissed? With costs?^^ his lordship repeated, and 
at first he seemed too bewildered to be angry or indignanL 
‘‘ What do they mean? God bless my soul and body, what 
do they mean? There is the plain covenant. How can they 
get over it? This woman buys the piece of ground on the 
distinct undertaking neither to build nor otherwise to do 
anything to injure my house. There it is. The other side? 
admit it. What can be clearer:"^ 

“ Yes, my lord,^^ said the messenger, rather timidly^ 
“ But their lordships construed the clause to mean that she- 
was not to build to the injury of your house — 

‘‘ Then I wish to heavens there was an institution in 
this country for teaching our judges the meaning of plain 
English. And I suppose I am to shut up that window 
now?"^. 

“No, my lord,^^ said the clerk, with a little relief; “ on 
that point we win. They give three guineas damages 
against Mrs. Laxbourne for having blocked up the win- 
dow. 

“ Upon my word, this is too bewilderingT^ was the in- 
voluntary exclamation. “ There is the point on which the 
whole dispute turned. It is decided in my favor, and yet I 
am cast in the costs of the whole easel Such a muddle was 
never heard of on the face of the earth before! The 
Chancery Court grant an injunction, and the hoarding the 
woman had the impudence to put up is taken away; then 
the case comes on, but it isn’t tried in Chancery, it is tried 
in the Queen’s Bench Division before a judge who knows 
nothing about the matter; then it comes to the Court of 
Appeal, and their lordships decide that I am entitled to the 
freedom of my window — and to three guineas damages — 
and yet the judgment is against me, and the costs of both 
sides! Why, the law is a fool!” 

“ Not half such a fool as those who have recourse to it,’^ 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


113 


the young man, having experience, may have thought; but 
of course such things are not said to clients. 

“ Can you give me an idea of what the total costs will 
amount tor’^ Lord Amesleigh demanded, abruptly. 

“lam sorry I can^t, my lord — 

“ Tell Mr. Burgoyne to make as accurate an estimate as 
he can, and send it to me at once. Good-afternoon!^^ 

So the messenger was dismissed ; and the angry and dis- 
appointed litigant remained in the hall of the club, pacing 
up and down, with his lips firm and his eyes scowling, and 
with but the cur test nod for any acquaintance who chanced 
to pass. 


II. 

JIMMIE. 

On this same wintery afternoon Kensington Gardens pre- 
sented a rather melancholy appearance. The copper-hued 
sun. was setting behind the tall and leafless trees; a thin 
mist prevailed everywhere; the Round Pond was slightly 
frozen over, and powdered with snow; a sprinkling of snow, 
too, lay here and there on the ruddy pathways and the dark 
green grass. There were few people about; the human life 
of the place had been drawn to the northern side of the 
pond, where some lads and boys had started a slide, and 
were busy with the roaring game. Any passer-by going east 
or west walked quickly^because of the cold, and soon disap- 
peared in the dusky twilight that hung about those solitary 
avenues. 

On the southern side of the pond, however, there were 
two young people standing, face to face, and evidently far 
too much engrossed with their own affairs to heed what was 
happening around them. The young lady was slight, and 
rather small of figure, with an oval face, pale complexion, 
rufous hair neatly braided, and round blue eyes. Of course 
her eyes were no rounder than any one else’s eyes, but they 


114 ■ 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


looked rounder somehow, and they were very innocent, and 
appealing, and gentle. She was smartly dressed in a New- 
market coat of some dark green stuff, with a tiny bonnet of 
the same material, and she wore a boa round her neck,^as 
became the time and the fashion; and her hands were hid- 
den in a muff; and altogether she looked very pretty, and 
neat, and warm, and comfortable. Her companion was 
considerably taller than she, a young fellow of two- or 
three-and-twenty, sufficiently pleasant-looking, pale of com- 
plexion, like herself, and of slim, but well-built frame. 

“ Twenty times worse than ever, that^s what I call it,'^ 
he was saying ruefully. “ And what the meaning of it all 
is I canH imagine. When you go to law of course you ex- 
pect one side to win. I cared very little which won, except 
in this way, that your mother could much better afford to 
pay the costs than my father can. It would have been a 
small matter to her, but it won’t be to my father, with 
every penny locked up in these wretched companies. But, 
as I say, of course I expected one side would win, and I 
thought the winner might be satisfied with the triumph, 
and come forward and do the generous thing, don’t you 
know. But now, according to this ridiculous judgment, 
both sides lose! Your mother is not allowed to block up 
our window, but she may go on with that confounded green- 
house — ” 

‘‘And why confounded greenhouse?” the young lady 
said, promptly. “ I might just as well talk of your con- 
founded window.” 

“ The law says we were quite justified in making that 
window,” he retorted. 

“ And the law says we shall be justified in going on with 
the greenhouse,” she maintained. 

“ But you know perfectly well the window would never 
have been made if you had not claimed the right to build 
anything you liked on that piece of land. You know that 
quite well. It was the greenhouse began it.” 


EOMEO AKD JULIET. 


115 


“ Don^t quarrel with me, Percy she said, with a sud- 
den change of front. 

“ Yes, that’s what you always say when you’re beaten in 
argument; and then I have to give in!” 

“ And so you ought,” she said, rather saucily. ‘‘Just 
think how good I am to you. Look at me now, standing 
shivering in the cold — ” 

“ Shivering, indeed! You’re as warm as an apple-pie — 
and as sweet. But look here, Jimmie,” said he (for this 
was his poetical way of contracting the name Jemima), 
“ what’s to be done now?” 

“ I don’t know,” said she. “ It’s for you to find out if 
anything can be done. And mind, Percy, I can’t keep on 
meeting you like this — at least, it can’t be often. Suppos- 
ing we were caught, and the story carried to mamma?” 

“ Oh,” said he, carelessly, “they have themselves to 
blame. If Montague and Capulet choose to quarrel, they 
must take the consequences.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ but if one of the consequences should 
be that mamma were to suddenly whisk me off to Nice or 
Cannes, then it’s very little of your Jimmie you’d see for 
many and many a day.” 

“ l£’s a horrible thing to have no position or profession, 
and to be entirely dependent,” said he, bewailing his hard 
lot. “ That comes of being a second son. My brother 
Charlie had everything done for him that my father’s crip- 
pled finances would allow, and now that he’s been ordered 
out to the Soudan, he has a chance of showing what stuff 
is in him. But what are you to do if you’re only a private 
secretary? A private secretary to a minister is all right; 
he is generally provided for sooner or later; but if you’re 
only private secretary to your own father, and working away 
at prospectuses and companies that never produce anything 
but squabbles at the board meetings, then it’s rather dis- 
mal.” 

“ Well, I must be going, Percy,” Miss Laxbourne said* 


116 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


‘‘ Oil no, wait a minute! When shall I see you next? I 
must think over the whole situation, and find out if there 
nothing to be done. 

“And soon, Percy? For you know mammals way; at 
any moment she may take it into her head to be off to the 
south; and then we should have forty-eight hours’ notice. 
If this cold weather continues, she is just as likely as not to 
do that.” 

“Yes, I will try to devise something, though it seems 
pretty hopeless. Wlien shall I see you again, then? Are 
you going to Mrs. Meyer’s crush to-night?” 

“ Oh, are you?” 

“ If I thought you would be there, yes. But I shouldn’t 
care to hang about the place — jammed in a crowd — having 
to take some old woman down to supper, and all the rest, 
unless I knew you were coming. ” 

“ Well, I couldn’t be certain,” his companion said, 

for you know mamma never decides till the last minute, 
and to-night we are going to the theater. If you could be 
at the theater, then I could signal to you, for certain. ” 

“ What theater?” 

“ The Lyceum. We are going to see Miss Andepson’s 
Parthenia. ” 

“ I couldn’t get a place!” said he. 

“ Surely they would give you a chair at the end of the 
stalls — opposite our box, I mean. ” 

“ And how are you to signal to me?” said he, for he was 
not aware of all the wiles of this artful youitg woman. 

“ Oh, that’s easy enough.” 

She gave him her muff to hold, and then removed the 
furred glove from her right hand. It was a pretty, white, 
small, warm hand, and on the third finger there was a 
hoop of rubies and diamonds. 

“ If Uncle James only knew I was using the ring he 
gave me to make clandestine appointments — ” 

“ Clandestine stuff! It’s their own fault,” 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


117 


‘‘Whose ' 

“ Oh, everybody^^’ said he, anxious not to give offense. 

“ Well, you know,^’ said she, as soon as I see you, I 
will put my hand on the edge of the box; and if the ring is 
on the small finger — so— that means, * All right: we're 
‘going to Mrs. Meyer's. ' But if it’s a little way on the fore- 
finger, that means ‘ Pm aiofiilly sorry, mamma won't go.' 
Now do you understand?” she asked, and she put back the 
ring in its accustomed place. 

“ But if it is where it is now, what message will that be?” 

“ Let me see. That will be ‘ 1 love you,' " she said, 
rather coyly. 

“ Is that why you keep it there always?” 

“ It is very, very rude to ask questions— don’t you know 
that? Now say good-bj^e, and let me go.” 

“ ‘ Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good-bye 
till it be morrow.’ ” 

“ But that’s mine,” she said, instantly; and it is to be 
suspected that they had rehearsed that scene before. 

“ Uh, no, it isn’t,” he answered. “ Wait a minute, I’ve 
sonde thing to tell you.” 

Indeed it mattered little what he had to tell her, so long 
as he could get her to remain there, with her pretty oval 
chin resting on the boa, and her blue eyes smiling atten- 
tion. 

“ I had to run down to Ourwen on business last week,” 
he continued, ‘‘ and you know the old Hall is in rather a 
musty condition — it’s ever so much more cheerful at the 
Blue Lion, and I generally put up there. But this time 
they had made some little preparations at the Hall, and be- 
sides Polly Parker was away — ” 

“ And who is Polly Parker?” said Miss Laxbourne, with 
a sudden coldness. 

“ She’s the daughter of the landlord there, and a verjr 
lively young person she is.” 


118 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


“ I was not aware that you cared for the society of pub- 
licans’ daughters.” 

“ 'Well, it’s a very curious thing, you know,” said he, 
‘‘ but it’s a fact all the same, that sometimes publicans’* 
daughters are just as pretty as other people’s daughters. 
Oh, don’t you get savage for nothing — I was talking about 
people generally. Of course, I did not mean to compare 
her with you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Miss Laxbourne, rather stiffly, ‘‘but 
I am not in the habit of getting savage. And I do not 
wish to be compared with any one, if you please.” 

Then something happened which need not be described 
here. It was a private matter. He continued his tale. 

“ And just as I was going to tell you how I was thinking 
about you all the time, you ungrateful creature! There, 
was I in a great dusky room, with tapestry on the walls. 
And if there’s anything in the world I hate, it’s tapestry, 
if you’re sitting alone; for wherever you turn there’s a big 
* fat ghost staring at you. Well, I said to myself, I would 
go and get ‘ Romeo and Juliet,’ and read all your speeches 
as gently as ever I could, and then answer them. I took a 
candle, and went into the library — ” 

“ Is it a ghost stoiy, Percy?” 

“It’s no story at all, you goose. The only ‘Shake- 
speare ’ I could find was a lithographic facsimile of the first 
folio; and I thought that would do well enough; and took 
it back with me. But when I came to read your speeches, 
and then mine, I made a discovery — at least, I suppose it 
would be no discovery to the literary swells, but it was to 
me. You never saw such a hashing up of a text in all your 
born days. It is Romeo who says ‘ Parting is such sweet 
sorrow ’ — so you see I can claim that if I like. Then Juliet 
says, ‘ Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ’ — 
so you can steal that from me if you choose; but I know 
Shakespeare meant it to be mine. Then Romeo goes on: 

‘ The gray-eyed morn smiles on theTrowning night,’ and. 


ROMEO Al^D JULIET. 


119 


SO forth, which clearly belongs to the Friar, and is repeated 
further down the page. And then I began to think: if 
these two actor fellows, Henimings and Oondell, flung 
Shakespeare^s plays together in this way, what’s the good 
of the literary swells swearing by the sacred text of Shake- 
speare, and quarreling about the spelling of a single word? 
Why, you ne\rer saw such spelling and such blunders, on 
every page. My private opinion is that those two fellows 
were a couple of unmitigated frauds — and that nobody has 
the least notion how Shakespeare left his plays — ” 

“ Yes, dear; but really I must go,” said Miss Laxbourne. 
The truth was that the two actors, who as editors made 
their bow to the public in the first quarter of the seven- 
teenth century, were exceedingly interesting to him for the 
simple reason that they served to keep the small green-clad 
figure there in front of him, but they were less interesting 
to her, who knew that her mamma might make inquiries 
as to her absence. 

At all events you must let me go as far as Church 
Street with you.” 

“ Not into the thoroughfare. ” 

Very well.” 

So together they walked westward, and crossed Kensing- 
ton Palace Gardens, and went along the stone passage. At 
the corner she stopped for a moment, and gave him her 
hand. 

‘‘ You’ve mixed up all those speeches now, Percy, and 1 
don’t know what to say.” 

“ Oh, yes, you do — never mind whether it is in Shake- 
speare or not. You know well enough. ” 

“ But I can’t be saying that to you always. Perhaps — 
if I think you’re looking very nice — I may say it by my 
ring to-night when you come into the stalls.” 

And before he could remonstrate she was away— making 
for Campden Hill and home. 


EOMEO AND JULIET. 




III. 

WHITE LIES. 

Mb. Meyeb was a gentleman with rather a nasal nose; 
he was a well-knotvn financier; a grower of orchids; a giver 
of good dinners; and a lavish patron of the arts. His wife 
belonged to an old historical English family, now of faded 
fortunes; and being a woman of shrewdness, dexterity, and 
wit, to say nothing of her personal charms, which were 
considerable, she had formed around her a very pleasant 
circle of friends and acquaintances, who, on their part, 
found her house a desirable haven. She was exceedingly 
kind to Mr. Percy Blount, because, as she said, ‘‘he was 
such a pretty boy;’^ but his father. Lord Amesleigh, would 
not accept any of her invitations, no doubt dreading to meet 
his archenemy, Mrs. Laxbourne, under Mrs. Meyer’s hos* 
pitable roof. 

Now the welcome message had been fiashed from the 
hoop of rubies and diamonds; and as soon as the piay was 
over, the young gentleman who had been lingering at the 
end of the stalls made his way out, leisurely got into a cab, 
and was driven to Lancaster Gate. Leisurely, because he 
wished to give Mrs. Laxbourne and her daughter time to 
get there first, for reasons he had. 

When he went upstairs to the landing, and was received 
by his smiling hostess, she said, 

“ Mima is here.” 

“ I know.” 

“ After this quarreling, I suppose you had better not let 
the mamma see you?” 

“ I suppose not.” 

“ But, if you like, I will go and get Mima to come and 
talk to me here,” was the next good-natured suggestion. 


ROMEO AND JULIET, 


121 


“Will you?^^ said he: but his eyes conveyed more than 
his words. 

Mrs. Meyer disappeared into the dense throng within the 
rooms — there was music going on, and also a good deal of 
talking in corners — and presently emerged again followed 
by the anxious-eyed Miss Laxbourne. 

“ Oh, Percy, said the young lady (and this was the way 
she entered into conversation with Mrs. Meyer, who, good 
woman, paid no further heed to her, but left her to her 
own devices), “ I am so glad you have come! I have been 
so miserable. I don’t know how I was able to make light 
of all this trouble when 1 saw you in the afternoon. It 
seems quite hopeless now. You should hear how mamma 
goes on. All the evening — in the theater — I was wishing 
I had never, never seen you, nor you me. ” 

“ Come in here,” he said, and he touched her arm, and 
she followed him a little way into a side-room, where there 
was an improvised huffet. There was no one in tb^ place 
except a couple of servants, who were behind the long 
tables, and could not possibly make much out of the under- 
tones of these young folk. 

“ It isn’t so bad as that, Jimmie,” said he. “Don’t 
you get into a fright. Of course, it is pretty awkward, I 
admit. So far we’ve only been playing at Komeo and 
Juliet; but it looks a little more serious now. However, 
keep up your spirits, Jim!” 

“ But what’s to be done, Percy?” she said, with plead- 
ing eyes. 

“ Well, I’ve been thinking, though I’m not good at it. 
I’m an ass, I know; but that’s the first step toward wis- 
dom, to know you are an ass. I’ve been thinking, Jimmie; 
and the only thing to be done is to tell a lot of white lies. ” 

“ Who, dear?” 

“You and I.” 

“ Then theyTl have to be awfully white ones that I have 
to tell, or else you’ll never believe me afterward.” 


m 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


Oh, you can put them all on to me. A husband is re- 
sponsible for his wife^s debts — and stratagems. 

That’s looking a long way ahead, Percy.” 

‘‘ Oh, no, it isn’t. I consider that is our relationship 
now. Why, what difference does the marriage ceremony 
make? What is the difference between you as yOu go into 
the church, to hear some words mumbled, and you when 
you come out again and walk down to the carriage?” 

“The difference?” she said; and her eyes grew grave — 
which always meant mischief. “ The difference, I suppose, 
is that before you are married young gentlemen are inclined 
to be civil to you, and that afterward they don’t care any- 
thing more about yon.” 

“ That’s all you know, then,” he said triumphantly. 
“ That’s your infantile innocence and ignorance. It’s only 
after a woman does get married that she has a ‘ real good 
time ’ with the young fellows — and old fellows, too; for 
they’re not afraid of her any longer.” 

“ Are you afraid of me, Percy?” 

“ Oh, I consider I’m as good as married already. I’m 
in for it. I’ve done it.” 

“You needn’t talk about it like that, anyway;” said 
shey pulling up her head a little bit. 

At this moment the pretty Mrs. Meyer came into the 
room. 

“ Ah, you two sketching again?” she said — making use 
of a phrase the meaning of which is well understood in 
certain houses in London. 

“ Oh, no,” Percy Blount said; “ only putting in a few 
rough outlines.” 

“ I’m afraid you’ll have to come back to your mamma, 
Mima,” said the young matron. “ I don’t want to get 
into trouble. ” 

“ J ust a minute! A couple of minutes,’ ’ the young man 
pleaded; and Mrs. Meyer good-naturedly laughed and 
withdrew. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


123 


‘‘ This is my plan, Jimmie. Yon know what an impor- 
tance people pat on the words, ‘ I^m sorry,^ if only the other 
siile will say them. They will hold on to a quarrel, and 
fight it through thick and thin, and spend hundreds and 
thousands of pounds on it; but if only their enemy will 
say. ' I am sorry ^ — whewl it^s all over. Now you’ve got 
to persuade your mother that my father is sorry, and I’ve 
gof to persuade my father that your mother is sorry.” 

But how, Percy?” 

‘‘ By inventing a number of little expressions of regret — 
pity the thing ever went to law — your mother says she 
never would have blocked up the window if she ha(i known 
we were entitled to it — my father says he never would have 
objected to the greenhouse if he had only been told before- 
hand — more regret that the thing ever went to law; don’t 
you understand? Why, each will think the other confesses 
to having been wrong; and you can’t help forgiving any- 
body who says, ‘ I’m sorry;’ and then all that is wanted is 
for Mrs. Meyer to ask them both to dinner. And she’ll do 
that for me — she’ll do anything for me — ” 

“ Because she is married; and you are one of the young 
gentlemen who are not afraid of her?” Miss Laxbourne 
asked, in innocent pursuit of knowledge. 

“ Don’t be saucy. Now listen. I will do all the lying, 
and cheerfully — ” 

“ Oh, indeed!” 

“ Haven’t I to save your conscience, you tender young 
thing? And it will be quite easy for you. All you will 
h^ve to do will be from time to time to say, ‘ Mamma, I 
hear Lord. Amesleigh is awfully sorry he ever tried to stop 
your building the greenhouse, and says it was all a mis- 
understanding;’ or, ‘ Mamma, I hear Lord Amesleigh says 
he would never have made that window if he had thought 
it would annoy you,’ and so on. You’re not telling any lie; 
you did hear these things — from me.” 

“ But if they’re not true, Percy?” 


ROMEO AKD JOLIET. 


124 

“ What's that to you? That's my business. You see, 
the law distinctly tells you that the husband is answerable 
for his wife's debts — and devices — but that the wife isn't 
answerable for the husband's; at least, I think that is the 
law; but as the lawyers themselves don't seem to know 
what the law is, I won't be sure, Hoivever, there it is; I 
take it on me. An4 then it is all in the interests of peace 
and good-will. There's lying and lying. When I was a 
small boy at school the fellows would come to me and say, 
‘ Look here, Blount, Fred Hogan says, for all you're an 
Honorable, he can knock your head off.' I knew Hogan 
never said anything of the kind; but what could I do? 
Then they'd go to Hogan. ‘ Look here, Hogan, Blount 
says he can kick you into the middle of next week.' The 
result of that kind of lying was war — bloody war, indeed; 
but the result of this kind of lying can only be peace. Now 
are you satisfied?" 

“I hope it will all turn out right," Miss Laxbourne said, 
'With a bit of a sigh. 

‘‘ Don't you see, Jimmie, when Mrs. Meyer brings them 
together it will be a case of letting by-gones be by-gones. 
They will each think the other has been penitential, and it 
would be most rude and unforgiving to reopen so painful a 
subject. That is the sensible way of settling the whole 
affair — instead of shutting up a poor young lady in a char- 
nel-house and murdering people all over the place. So I'll 
tell you how to begin — cautiously, cautiously, mind — " 

Here Mrs. Meyer appeared again, laughing, but with a 
distinct warning. 

“ I really must go, dear," the young lady said; and then 
she looked at him with solemn eyes. “And isn't it too bad 
of Mrs. Meyer to say we're sketching! It's far more serious 
than that, isn't it, Percy?" 

“ Why, of course it is!" said he. “ Sketching is only 
skylarking." 

And with this recondite aphorism implanted in her tender 


KOMEO AND’ JULIET. 


125 


bosom. Miss Laxbourne returned to the moving and mur- 
muring throng. 


IV. 

THE GO-BETWEENS. 

But it was a desperately difficult task these two had un- 
dertaken; for Mrs. Laxbourne was furious, and Lord 
Amesleigh more than furious. Even Mrs. Meyer, who had 
been mainly instrumental in bringing the young people to- 
gether, and who was good-naturedly looking forward to the 
possibility of pacification after the ill-will begotten of the 
lawsuit had calmed down somewhat, did not dream of in- 
terfering thus prematurely. 

“ Of course it will come right in the end,^^ she said to 
her husband. “ It must. There never was a more eligi- 
ble match. Look at it. You have a young fellow of good 
family who hasnT a penny in the world, and his father un- 
able to do anything for him; and you have the only daugh- 
ter — the only child, indeed — of a rich widow; and these 
two are head over ears in love with each other. What more 
can you want? It must come right, if the father and the 
mother have any reason left. If it doesiiT, they should be 
shut up in Bedlam. 

Mrs. Meyer’s husband had less enthusiasm, perhaps less 
interest —he was a busy man. 

It ought to come all right, as you call it, if they have 
any common sense,” he said, rather indifferently. “ But 
it is wonderful how some people love a quarrel — how they 
will hug it and cherish it, as if it was a lap-dog — especially 
a quarrel that has got into the law-courts. However, if 
you are so anxious to have the affair made up, why don’t 
you send Mima to the old gentleman? She should go down 
on her knees, shouldn’t she? that’s the W'ay they do on the 
stage. And she has eyes pretty enough for anything; only 


126 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


pretty eyes don^t count for much when you are over sixty 
and ill-tempered.^^ 

In the meantime the young lady with the pretty eyes 
was confiding her fears, and sorrows, and timid despairs to 
Percy Blount. They had met once more in Kensington 
Gardens, and were walking up and down over the thin 
sprinkling of snow, and pretending to watch the unusual 
scamperings of a big colley, that skated a good deal as it 
went headlong across the ice of the Pound Pond after a ball 
thrown by its master. 

“ If there was only ground glass in that window, she 
said, piteously, “ mamma might more easily be reconciled 
to it. 

“Ground glass! what does that matter?’’ he said. “I 
suppose your mother is going to build that greenhouse so 
that my father may have the pleasure of seeing it every 
time he goes out of the door?” 

“ What is the use of a greenhouse if people can look 
into it from an opposite window?’’ said she. 

He stepped back a pace. 

“ Well, you are a pretty innocent, you are! That’s a 
very nice speech for such a dear, tender, young thing to 
make: ‘ What’s the use of a greenhouse if people can look 
into it?’ Then the real use is to be a nice quiet corner 
when the others are busy with music or afternoon tea? Oh, 
yes. Miss Slyboots— ” 

“ Percy, why will you put meanings into everything I 
say?” 

“ The proper uses of a greenhouse?^ — why you should be 
made President of a Sketching Society.” 

“ I never did a bit of sketching — never, never!” she 
said. “ It was all real — from the first moment I saw you; 
and you’ve no right to say such things of me. ” 

“You never did a bit of sketching? How about the 
Hudspeths’ ball, and that white-faced, yellow-mustached, 
lisping idiot from Oxford?” 


ROMEO AMD JULIET. 


127 


Well, you were very ill-natured to me that evening, 
and it served you right/' said Miss Jimmie. 

“ And that artist-fellow who wrote the verses about you 
in the ‘ South Kensington Magazine 

“If people choose to write verses, how can I help itr 
Percy, why will you quarrel? Why don't you be kind to 
me, when I take so much trouble to come and see you?" 

“ Well, I suppose I'm always in the wrong," he said 
with admirable good-humor. 

“ Ah, now I see you are going to be different, " said Miss 
Jimmie, approvingly. “ I can always tell by your eyes. 
It's when you try to trap me that you're so unkind. It's 
when you try to be clever; and what's the use of that, 
Percy, when you are not clever? I mean not verj/y ver^ 
clever. It's far easier for you, and I'm sure it's far pleas- 
anter for me, for you to be just good and nice. " 

“ My dear," said he, “ on the raging prairies I've often 
seen men shot for saying far less than what you've just 
said to me; but I forgive you; for you're such a simple 
young thing; and you never sketch; and you never gave 
any lilies of the valley to Major* Macdonald when he asked 
you for them at the carriage-door; and you never stopped 
on board the Lamberts’ boat, at Henley, along with Sidney 
Weigall, when I had promised the Greys that you and your 
mother were coming to lunch with them. But it is no use 
beginning a catalogue of your iniquities — " 

“ It's well for you to say that," she said, sharply. “ You 
— who are the most abominable flirt I «ver saw in my life. " 

Tell me what you have said to your mother," he said, 
with some prudence, and instantly her manner changed; 
for this was recalling her from these sham quarrels to the 
serious realities of their position. 

“ Well, Percy, I haven't done much good so far," she 
said. “ Of course, mamma knows that I have seen you. 
And you told me I should be justifled in saying to her that 
your father bitterly regretted having gone to law." 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


128 


“Justified! I should think so; you never said a truer 
word in your life/^ he interposed, rather grimly. “ The 
estimated costs are five hundred pounds; that means six hun- 
dred to pay. Of course your mother would think little of 
that; but it’s serious for us. Well, did she say anything?” 

“ She said, ‘ No doubt he does, and serve him right,’ ” 
answered Miss Jimmie, honestly. 

“ That can hardly be called promising for a beginning,” 
Mr. Percy said, “but my scheme is young yet. Well, did 
you say anything more?” 

“No; I didn’t dare. For do you know what frightens 
me, Percy? Mamma has taken this quarrel so much to 
heart that I am sure, if she thought I sympathized with 
your side, she would forbid me ever to see you, or to speak 
to you again. Mind you, I think it is awfully good of her 
that she hasn’t said so already; for she must know that you 
and I meet occasionally, at Mrs. Meyer’s and elsewhere; 
though she doesn’t know the meaning of the postage-stamp 
on the pane. Well, I say it is all the fault of the lawyers 
that we should have to meet in this hole-and-corner way; 
fancy their dawdling over the case for a whole eight 
months, and then making a hash of it in the end. And 
now I am quite afraid to speak of it to mamma, in case she 
should say, ‘ I forbid you to have any further communica- 
tion with Mr. Blount.’ ” 

“ But what would that matter?” 

“ It would matter everything,” said she, rather pensive- 

ly- 

“ You don’t mean to say you would give me up just be- 
cause of a freak of your mother’s?” he demanded with in- 
dignant eyes. 

“ If it was her wish she would make me,” said Miss Jim- 
mie sadly. “ It’s little you know how a girl is situated. ” 

“Now don’t you be an ass, Jimmie,” he exclaimed. 
“ Do 3'Ou mean to say you would like to play ‘Borneo and 
Juliet ’ in earnest? Do you mean to say you would allow 


KOMEO AKD JULIET. 


129 

your mother to take you away, and shut you up, and stuff 
of that kind? That is all very well in plays, but doesnT 
belong to the nineteenth century at all. 

‘‘ I don^t look at it that way, Percy, when I am with you. 
That is just where it is. When I am with you, I feel sure 
everything will be right.^^ 

“ And everything will be right,^' said he in a comforting 
fashion. “ All we have to do is to treat those two pugilistic 
people with a little judicious skill. 

So they parted at that time. But, to do the young man 
justice, it was with a good deal more than a little judicious 
skill that he proceeded to work out his scheme. The diffi- 
culties were all at the beginning. It was with impatient 
anger that Lord Amesleigh received Mrs. Laxbourne^s ad- 
mission — as gently conveyed by Percy Blount — that she 
wished there had been no lawsuit. A similar admission on 
the part of Lord Amesleigh — conveyed by Miss Laxbourne 
— was received by Mrs. Laxbourne in sullen silence. These 
were but initial steps, however. Whenever either of the 
elder people could be got to talk on the subject, there was 
sure to be some phrase used which, with a little useful 
coloring, could be made presentable to the other side. 
Moreover, a man likes to be told that he has been right in 
a quarrel; and if he thinks that a little generosity on his 
part will secure for him that grateful assurance, he will 
hardly begrudge it. 

‘‘It isnT half so easy to make people friends as to make 
them enemies,^ ^ said Percy Blount to his timid fellow-con- 
spirator. “ But weTe getting on. And now you can tell 
your mother that my father as good as says that if he had 
known the window would be such an annoyance he never 
would have had it made.^^ 

“ But did he say so, Percy? 

“ Well — ^you — see — in fact — I donT know that he used 
these exact words— not these precise words, perhaps— but 
you give the general effect, donT ypu know? And after 


130 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


that your mother ought to say something handsome about 
the greenhouse. ” 

“ She has never said a word about building it, Percy. 

‘‘ Perhaps she won^t build he said eagerly. 

“ Perhaps not.^^ 

“ Then I may tell my father that your mother wonT 
build the greenhouse, after all?^^ 

“ Well, I wouldnT say that, Percy — I wouldnT say that 
precisely — not precisely. 

“ Oh, I tell you we are getting on first- rate,^^ said he, 
with the greatest confidence. 

Indeed, matters went on very well; and in due time it 
was mutually understood that both parties were very sorry 
the lawsuit had ever been entered upon; and that each was 
free to admit that the other had a good deal of right on his 
and her side. No doubt the well-known attachment of the 
young people helped toward this desirable consummation; 
Lord Amesleigh being quite aware that a marriage with 
Miss Laxbourne would be a most excellent thing for his 
younger son; and Mrs. Laxbourne being ready to acknowl- 
edge that Mr. Percy Blount was a very pleasant-mannered 
young man. 

This was the situation of affairs when one morning Mrs. 
Laxbourne and her daughter, having been shopping down 
in Kensington High Street, were returning home by Camp- 
den House Road. 

“ Mamma,^^ said the daughter, in a breathless under- 
tone, ‘‘ here is Lord Amesleigh coming along 

“ Well?'’^ was the only and rather chilling answer. 

“ But youfil bow to him, wonT you? — oh, yes! — he has 
been so civil and anxious to make everything up.^^ 

She could not say any more because of Lord Amesleigh^B 
approach. It was clear that the two enemies distrusted 
each other. He regarded her rather distantly; she pretend- 
ed not to know of his coming. And then, when he was 
quite near, she raised her eyes — ready to whip them away if 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


131 


he was not expecting recognition; the next moment he was 
raising his hat; Mrs. Laxbourne bowed; and poor little 
Jimmie bowed too, and then the widow sailed majestically 
on. 

“ You^re such a dear mother the girl said, and she 
clung to her arm; but Mrs. Laxbourne did not smile, nor 
look pleased, nor fluttered; what she had done had been 
demanded of her by the merest forms of courtesy. 

Arrived within doors. Miss Jimmie, her heart bubbling 
over with joy, immediately ran to her own room; and there 
and quickly did she take out a postage-stamp and press it to 
her lips — happy postage-stamp! — and put it on the upper 
corner of the lower sash of the window. From the outside 
that postage-stamp, to any one who chanced to see it. 
Would have appeared an insignificant speck; but if Percy 
Blount happened to be coming by that way — which was 
highly probable, seeing that he lived next door — he would 
recognize its importance. For Miss Jimmie, driven by the 
hard necessities of fate, had become skilled in the use of 
telegraphic signals; and the postage-stamp on the window- 
pane meant nothing less than “ Dear Percy, be sure to meet 
me at the Round Pond at four o^ clock this afternoon,^ ^ 

And at four o^clock that afternoon there he was. 

‘‘ Oh, Percy, I have such good news!^^ she cried. 

‘‘ I thought you had, by the way you came along — with 
a step as light as a fairy. Wefll have to enter you for a 
walking-match at Lillie Bridge. What is itr^^ 

Mamma and I met your father this morning; and she 
bowed to him, and he bowed to her!^^ 

“You don^t mean that I 

“Yes, I do.^^ 

“ WeVe done it — and I told you we should,^^ he said, 
rather patronizingly. 

“ Well, Percy, I will beg your pardon; I did not think 
you were so clever — and everything has turned out exactly 
as you said, 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


132 

‘‘ What^s the next thing to be done?'^ said he. “ Fve 
heard of chemical experiments in which you place two sub- 
stances together and let them melt separately, and they’ll 
keep separate, too, so long as they are motionless, but the 
moment you jog the dish they rush together. Who’s going 
to jog the dish?” 

I don’t know what you mean, Percy.” 

“ Have you time to come with me to Mrs. Meyer’s?” 

‘‘ What, now?” 

Yes, this instant.” 

‘‘No; I must go back home at once. Besides, how 
could you and I go together to Mrs. Meyer’s? Even if we 
were engaged, I shouldn’t much like it.” 

“ Oh! we are not engaged, then?” said he. 

“ A proper engagement is when the parents know,” said 
the young lady. 

“ But if parents will go to law for eight months things 
will happen in the meantime independently of them, don’t 
you see? Well, I will go on to Mrs. Meyer’s by myself.” 

“ What for, Percy?” 

“ Never you mind,” said the arch-plotter. “ Some- 
thing strange will happen ere long, as Zadkiel says.” 

After a few minutes’ further talk, immaterial to this 
narrative, they parted, and he made straight away north- 
ward for Lancaster Gate. There were a number of people 
in Mrs. Meyer’s drawing-room, and he was furnished with 
some tea and an elderly lady to entertain. But by and by 
Mrs. Meyer, finding an opportunity, took him a little bit 
aside. 

“What is it you want?” she said, laughing. “It 
wasn’t for tea and talk you came here this afternoon. 
Cigarettes and billiards, I imagine, are what you fill up 
your leisure time with — unless when youYe skirmishing 
around with Mima Laxbourne. What is it?” 

“ I want you to ask my father and Mrs, Laxbourne to 
dinner on the same night,” said he. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


133 


“ What?^^ she cried. “ Do you think I want the chan- 
delierr. smashed? 

“ I assure you they will meet most peaceably — in the 
most friendly way/^ he said. 

It will be remembered that when Barbara Allan went 
to visit Sir John Graham of the West Countrie the remark 
she made — and it was to the point, if it was not exactly 
considerate — was, 

“ Young man, I think ye’re lying.” 

Now Mrs. Meyer did not say anything like that to Percy 
Blount; but a phrase remarkably similar to it in sound 
passed through her mind. Nay, more, her obvious in- 
credulity was visible in her eyes. 

‘‘ I see you don’t believe me, but it’s a fact,” he main- 
tained. “ Ever since that lawsuit was settled they have 
been regretting it was ever begun; and now I am sure they 
want to make matters up. This very morning my father 
met Mrs. Laxbourne in the street, and she bowed to him 
and he bowed to her. ’’ 

“ Is that so? You’re not hoaxing me?” 

“ I give you my word of honor that Miss Laxbourne, 
who was with her mother at the time, told me herself 
within the last half hour. ” 

“ Oh, very well. I will make the experiment, if you 
like. And I suppose I am to ask you and Mima too?” 

“ Oh, no, certainly not; that would be expecting far too 
much. Indeed, I think it would be better without us.” 

“ Ah, young people don’t care much about the dinner 
part of an evening,” said Mrs. Meyer, in no unkindly way. 
“ Well, you and she can come in later on, and amuse 
yourselves with a little sketching. You certainly don’t 
affect much concealment about it.” 

“ Why should we? We are engaged.” 

“ Indeed? What does the mamma say?” 

She hasn’t said anything, for she hasn’t been askej. 


134 


KOMEO AKD JULIET. 


But that will be all right, I know. And as for the 
sketching, I am sure you are unjust, Mrs. Meyer. I never 
saw two people who conducted themselves with so much 
decorum and propriety as Miss Laxbourne and myself — 
never 

“ I like that! But how are you to know? You have no 
eyes for any one but your two selves. How are you to 
know how other people behave?^’ 

A couple of more visitors came in. 

‘‘ I will see what our engagements are, and fix a night,^^ 
she said to him. 

‘‘ You are just goodness itself,^^ he said, as she moved 
away to receive the new-comers. 


V. 

A DINNER-PARTY. 

When Mrs. Meyer received from Lord Amesleigh a note 
accepting her invitation to dinner she began to believe that 
Percy Blount had reported quite truly on the position of 
affairs, and that she was about to purchase the honor and 
glory of becoming the pacificator between the two families 
on very easy terms. Mrs. Laxbourne accepted too; and 
as there was to be a crush later on in the evening, it was 
understood that the young people would make their ap- 
pearance then. 

“ Do you think I dare place those two next each other 
at dinner ?^^ Mrs. Meyer asked of her husband. 

“ I should say decidedly not, if you have any doubt 
about it,^^ was the instant reply. 

“ Percy begged me to do it, so that they might have 
every chance of making it up,’^ she said. 

“You know quite well, he answered, “that wdien a 
young fellow is mad about a girl there^s nothing he wonH 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 135 

do to serve his own ends? What does he care, when he 
asks you to risk a scene ?^^ 

“ How can there be a scene, Philip? They are civilized 
people. 

“ Civilized people may hate each other like poison; and 
often do.^^ 

“If the very worst happens,’^ she urged, but she was 
clearly in some doubt, “ the only thing they could do 
would be to ignore each other’s presence, and talk to their 
next neighbor. 

“ Have it your own way,^^ said he, returning to the 
pages of the “ Economist;’^ “ whatever does happen will 
happen at your end of the table, not at mine. 

This was but cold comfort; and, indeed, on the evening 
of the dinner-party, as the hour for the arrival of the 
guests drew near, Mrs. Meyer had to confess to herself that 
she was not a little nervous. And yet what had she to 
fear? Percy Blount had assured her again and again that 
it was impossible they should reopen so painful a subject. 
Both, of them would be glad enough to say nothing at all 
about it. On the other hand, it was pretty clear that they 
wanted to sink their differences; why should she dread a 
collision between two people who were coming to her house 
for the almost ostensible purpose of making friends? 

Lord Amesleigh came late, and immediately after his 
arrival dinner was announced as served. He and his host- 
ess, of course, went down last; and when he got to the end 
of the table he found Mrs. Laxbourne just taking her place 
— the next to his own. They bowed to each other, quite 
pleasantly; and Mrs. Meyer, the moment they were all 
seated, opened the ball in a dexterous fashion. 

“ This should be a proud day for Lord Amesleigh,^’ she 
said, addressing Mrs. Laxbourne. “I suppose you saw 
what was in this morning’s papers?” 

She was referring to the letter of a special correspondent 
in the Soudan, who described in detail a signal act of gal- 


136 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


lantry performed by Lord Amesleigh^s eldest son at a very 
critical moment indeed, when the Arabs had actually 
broken the square at one part, and mischief seemed immi- 
nent. 

Oh, yes,^^ said Mrs. Laxbourne smiling, “ Mima read 
out the account to me this morning. And we were won- 
dering whether we should see his portrait in the illustrated 
journals.-’^ 

‘‘ Ah, I never thought of that,^^ Lord Amesleigh said, 
looking up from his soup. ‘‘ Don^t know how it^s done. 
Do they ask you for a photograph?^ ^ 

‘‘ Wouldn^t you send it?^^ Mrs. Laxbourne suggested; 
and she added graciously: “ I^m sure we should all be 
proud to see it. 

“ I^m afraid it would be hardly the thing for the boy’s 
own father to say he thought his portrait should be pub- 
lished — besides, I don’t know that Charlie would like it. 
He is rather young to be figuring as a public character. ” 

“ What is his age. Lord Amesleigh?” said the widow; 
and Mrs. Meyer, seeing them now well started (to her great 
relief), left them to themselves, and turned to her neigh- 
bor on the other side. 

Indeed, they got on very well, considering that Lord 
Amesleigh was not much of a talker; and Mrs. Laxbourne 
was considerably gracious, in her magnificent manner. 
Naturally, certain subjects were carefully avoided; there 
was not much conversation, for example, about green- 
houses, or windows, or lawyers, or costs. But Mrs. Meyer 
observed with much satisfaction that Montague continued 
as complaisant toward his neighbor as his business-like 
attention to his dinner allowed; while Lady Oapulet re- 
mained as amiable and pleasant as was consistent with her 
somewhat grand air. ^ 

Dinner and dessert over, the ladies went, and Mr. Meyer 
took his wife’s place. Now the financier’s port wine was 


EOMEO AND JULIET. 


137 


excellent, and Lord Amesleigh knew it; and, having no 
interest in the feeble platitudes that constitute after-dinner 
politics (his own opinions were of a distinctly robust type, 
if he had cared to express them), he devoted himself to the 
^47 with deliberation and method. To ask the great 
financier for advice or assistance with regard to any of the 
numerous companies which his lordship was painfully try- 
ing to float or keep afloat, was, at the man’s own table, im- 
possible; Lord Amesleigh had no kind of concern in the 
discussion of Fair Trade vs. Free Trade; the port wine 
was of undeniable quality; and so far all was well. 

Nevertheless, it may have been that extra glass or two of 
port that was responsible for what followed. When Lord 
Amesleigh went upstairs to the drawing-room along with 
the other gentlemen he was in an unusually amiable mood; 
and to make it evident that no ill-feeling remained between 
him and his former enemy, he crossed the room and took a 
seat side by side with the lady whom a few weeks before he 
had described as a poisonous witch. Amid the general 
hum of conversation (guests were beginning to arrive now, 
and, Mrs. Meyer was expecting every minute a famous bary- 
tone to make his appearance) Lord Amesleigh no doubt 
considered that he conld speak confidentially to his neigh- 
bor; and so he said, with the pleasantest manner he could 
assume, 

“ I must not be outdone in generosity, Mrs. Laxbourne. 
I had not intended speaking of the little painful matter; 
and of course it is better to let by-gones be by-gones; how- 
ever, you must let me say that I am quite sensible of — of — 
well, I will say your good sense in taking the initiative in 
promoting a friendly understanding, and nothing could be 
more amiable than your undertaking not to build the 
greenhouse — ” 

“ I beg your pardon!” she said, sharply. 

He looked rather surprised at her sudden change of man- 
ner. 


138 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


“ Your undertaking not to build the greenhouse — he 
began again. 

“And when did I ever give any such undertaking?^^ 
said she, indignantly. “ And to whom?^^ 

He began to be a bit nettled too. 

“ I donH suppose you put it down in writing/^ he said, 
with a touch of impatience. “ But I was certainly led to 
understand that you did not propose to proceed with the 
building of the greenhouse. Certainly I understood as 
much. Why, what would be the value of your expressions 
of regret over the whole affair if you — if you still insisted 
on building that house? Eeally — 

“ Eeally, said the widow, breaking in upon him — and 
amazement as well as indignation was in her eyes — “ really 
I don^t know what you mean. My expressions of regret? 
My taking the initiative? It was your expressions of regret 
that I listened to, and took into consideration! The initia- 
tive, as I understood it, was yours. And as for any under- 
taking, the only undertaking I know of is that you have 
promised to block up that window!^' 

“ What?^^ he exclaimed — and it was fortunate that the 
bustle of arriving visitors and of the general conversation 
was considerable. “ What lunacy is this? Block up the 
window? Who said I would block up the window? I sup- 
pose you don^t reflect that I shall have to pay six or seven 
hundred pounds for that window?” 

“ I suppose that when people lose a lawsuit they have 
got to pay,^^ she said, with a cold magnificence of manner. 

“ When people have fools for counsel and dolts for 
judges, they may expect the verdict to go against them,” 
he retorted. 

“I dare say that is what the losing side generally 
think,^^ she remarked, rather superciliously. 

Where was the regret of which he had heard so much? 
There was a good deal more of triumph in her tone. 

“ The losing side?” he said, with some warmth. “ Let 


EOMEO AND JULIET. 


139 


me point out to you that you did not win everything. I 
don't think you will put up that hoarding again that the 
Court of Chancery ordered to be removed. " 

She flushed with vexation, but grew more stately than 
ever. 

“ Lord Amesleigh, I did not come here in order to dis- 
cuss points of law with you. I was told that you deeply re- 
gretted the whole affair, that you were anxious to come to 
more friendly terms, that you had said if you had known 
the window was to have been an annoyance you would 
never have had it put there, and that you were going to 
block it up. I And I have been grossly deceived — ^by 
stories that must have come from your son — ” 

‘‘ I tell you, madame, it is I who have been grossly de- 
ceived!" he exclaimed, vehemently; “ and by stories that 
must have come through your daughter — " 

Lord Amesleigh!" 

He rose. 

“ I wish you good-evening, madame!" he said, with a 
profound bow, though his face was purple with rage; and 
so furious was he that he passed Mrs. Meyer — who was busy 
with her guests, and did not notice him — without bidding 
her ‘‘ Good-night!" and went down-stairs, and got his coat 
and hat, and stormily left the house. 

Then Mrs. Laxbourne, in just about as violent a temper, 
but outwardly calm and self-possessed, came along. 

Good-night, Mrs. Meyer!" said she, and she held out 
her hand. 

Her hostess stared. 

“You are not going! There will be a little music pres- 
ently. And your daughter — " 

“Neither my daughter nor myself," said Mrs. Lax- 
bourne, “ will in future go anywhere that we are likely to 
meet Lord Amesleigh. " 

Mrs. Meyer glanced hastily round the two rooms. 


140 


KOMEO AKD JULIET. 


Bless me, he has gone! What has happened, dear Mrs. 
Laxbourne?^^ 

The poor little woman was really in a dreadful predica- 
ment. Here were her visitors arriving — to whom she had 
to be smiling and civil, shaking hands, remembering 
names, and asking pertinent little questions — and here, on 
the other hand, was a guest wanting to get away, who, if 
she did get away in this temper, would never enter her door 
again. Fortunately, just at this moment there was a brief 
lull in the arrival of the people, and she hastily took ad- 
vantage of it. 

“ Tell me what is the matter, dear Mrs. Laxbourne! I 
understood you wished to meet Lord Amesleigh; I was told 
he was most anxious to meet you. I hope nothing dis- 
agreeable has occurred?^ ^ 

I have been brought here under false pretenses-^that 
is all,^^ said the widow, stiffly. 

This was a httle too much. 

“ Not of mine,^^ her hostess said. 

No; certainly not. But I was told that Lord Ames- 
leigh had expressed his regret about ever having gone to 
law, and was willing to be accommodating in every way, 
and so I consented to meet him; and now I find him more 
vindictive than ever, glorying in the small piece of triumph 
that the court allowed him, and imagining that I — that I 
— had taken the first steps to conciliate him! Really, it is 
too ridiculous. The court unanimously of opinion that he 
was wholly in the wrong; and I am the one to profess to be 
sorry — and to give undertakings not to use my just 
rights — 

“ It is for the victor to be generous, said Mrs. Meyer. 

‘‘ At all events, I shall not subject myself to such an- 
other interview, said Mrs. Laxbourne loftily. “ Will you 
tell Mima, if she should have left before I get home, to re- 
turn at once? I shall be waiting for her.^'’ 

“I am so awfully sorry, dear Mrs. Laxbourne,^^ the 


ROMEO AKO JULIET. 


141 


perturbed hostess said; “ and that it should have happened 
in my house. Won^t you stay until Mima comes? Your 
carriage won’t be below. 

“ I would rather go, thank you. I suppose one of your 
servants can get me a cab/^ said the indignant widow; and 
forthwith she went down to the cloak-room, and they got 
her a cab, and away she went home. 

A little while after that Mr. Percy Blount made his ap- 
pearance. 

“ Mima come yet?^^ he asked, when he got to the head 
of the stairs. 

‘‘ No, she is not,^’ Mrs. Meyer answered in an under- tone 
— for there was some music going on — a violin solo, with 
piano accompaniment — ‘‘ nor is she coming.^’ 

Something in her manner struck him. 

“ What is the mat ter 

‘‘Everything. As far as I understand, your father has 
gone away in a furious rage; and Mrs. Laxbourne is in the 
same condition. Didn^t you tell me these two wanted to 
see each other? 

“ Certainly I did,^^ he answered, looking rather alarmed. 
“ What has happened?’^ 

“How can I tell? Apparently they have had a battle 
royal over that horrid law case. DidnH you tell me there 
would not be a word said about it?^^ 

“ Yes, I did,^^ he answered, and now he looked rather 
guilty. “ Certainly I did. Both of them, I know quite 
well, were willing to let by-gones be by-gones. I know it. 
You don^t have bitter enemies bow to each other in the 
street. And of course we thought — I thought — that when 
they met they would agree to say nothing. When you are 
content to let by-gones be by-gones, you don^t rake up the 
whole quarrel again. How did it happen, Mrs. Meyer?^^ 

“ I tell you I don^t know; but there they are — gone off; 
and each, I suppose, with a deadly grudge against me. I 
am glad there was no scene, that is all.^^ 


U2 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


He stood silent for a second or two in a pretty obvious 
quandary. Then there was some applause within the 
rooms, the instrumental duet was at an end. 

“ Wait a moment, and I will come back to you,^^ Mrs. 
Meyer said, and she disappeared into the crowd, to seize 
upon some other executant. When she returned she said : 
“ You must be able to explain, if anybody can, why there 
should be a quarrel. When they sat down to dinner they 
seemed to be friendly enough. They talked to each other 
just like ordinary people. I was very glad; for I hate 
quarrels; and I was thinking of poor little Mima. Then 
they came up here; and here it was the fight must have be- 
gun about the lawsuit; and now both of them are gone — 
boiling. That is not a nice thing to have happen in one^s 
house, you know. 

She regarded him for a second with scrutinizing eyes. 

‘‘ Look here, Mr. Percy; what have you been up to? I 
fancy you must know something about this misunderstand- 
ing. It was you who were so anxious to bring them to- 
gether. 

Thus challenged, he thought he might as well make a 
clean breast of it; and he briefiy described the, plan he had 
devised for bridging over the gulf between the two families. 

“ Mind you,^^ he added, “ we didnT tell any downright 
lies; but only added a little friendly coloring here and there 
to whatever admissions we could get them to make. Of 
course Mima and I thought that if we could only bring 
them together, that would be all that was necessary; for 
we assumed that they would not say a word about what 
was past. How they ever came to speak of it, I canT im- 
agine; but I can imagine how, if they were beginning to 
discuss matters, they might discover that their willingness 
to be amiable and accommodating had been a little — just a 
little — exaggerated. I didnT see any harm in it — just to 
make them friends, donH you know — and they did say 
things at times that could naturally be twisted into ‘ Sorry 


KOMEO AKD JULIET. 


143 


I did it/ ‘ Wouldn^t do it another time/ ‘ Make it up 
now, if you like/ Oh, mind this, if any one is to blame, 
I take the whole. Mima only said what I told her to say. 

“ Well,^^ said Mrs. Meyer, looking at him with laugh- 
ing eyes, though she hardly thought it was a laughing 
matter, “ you are a pretty pair of children; and you have 
got into a very pretty mess this time. What are you go- 
ing to do?’^ 

“ How can I say? All this is new to me. I suppose 
there is no chance now of Jimmie — I mean Mima— com- 
ing here to-night 

“ Oh no, none. She will be forbidden the house, I sup- 
pose. And I don^t imagine you will find the mamma so 
well-disposed toward you. She winked at a good deal, Mr. 
Percy, for she is very fond of Mima; but you^ve roused the 
lion in her this time.'^ 

“You needn^t go prophesying evil, Mrs. Meyer, he 
said gloomily. “ What can she do?^^ 

“ I hope — I say I hope — she wonH compel Mima to 
promise to have nothing more to do with you or your 
family. 

“ Mima wonH be such a fool as to promise anything of 
the kind,^^ he said warmly. 

“ ‘ Children, obey your parents,’ observed Mrs. Meyer 
dispassionately; but now she had to go away to attend to 
her guests — leaving him in a very depressed and distressful 
mood indeed. 


VI. 

A CONSPIRACY. 

On the second morning after the occurrence of these 
tragic events Mrs. Meyer had just left her house and was 
proceeding westward toward Hotting Hill, when she met 
Miss Jimmie. The young lady was for passing unnoticed, 
her eyes bent on the pavement, a blush of embarrassment 
mounting to her pale and pretty face. 


144 


KOMEO AKD JULIET. 


‘^Mima Laxbourne/^ exclaimed Mrs. Meyer — and a 
woman is very indignant indeed when she addresses her 
friend by both Christian and surname — ‘‘Mima Lax- 
bourne, what do you mean?” 

The girl paused and looked up, in a hesitating, piteous, 
confused way. 

“ Don’t be vexed with me, dear Mrs. Meyer, but — but — 
mamma might think I had stopped to speak to you about 
Percy!” 

“ And why shouldn’t you speak to me about Percy?” 
Mrs. Meyer demanded. 

“ Then you don’t know?” the girl said timidly, and as 
she spoke the round blue eyes grew quickly moist. “ It’s 
— it’s all over between Percy and me.” 

Downright anger kept Mrs. Meyer silent for a second, 
then she said — and very sharply she said it, too — 

“ Upon my word, people who are such maniacs as to go 
to law should be deprived of the custody of their children. 
They are not fit to be trusted with them. So it’s all over 
between Percy and you, is it? And what does Percy say?” 

“ I don’t know. I have not seen him. I must not see 
him. I am to send him back — the little presents he has 
given me now and again, — but — but — I haven’t had the 
heart to do that yet.” 

She took out her handkerchief to brush away the tears 
from her eyelashes. Mrs. Meyer grew more and more 
angry, and none the less so that she was aware of her own 
helplessness in the matter. 

“ Really, it is too ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “ What 
did you want with a greenhouse on that side when you had 
those two behind?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Miss Jimmie. 

“ And what on earth did Lord Amesleigh want with that 
window?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, with a bit of a sob, 
“ except to make people miserable, ” 


KOMEO AOT JULIET. 


145 


Of course I can understand your mother being vexed 
on finding out the trick that was played on her — 

‘‘ It wasn’t a trick, Mrs. Meyer,” Miss Jimmie said, 
pleadingly; “ we only wanted to make them friends. And 
we thought they wished to come together, and that they 
would never mention the lawsuit. Percy was quite certain 
that everything would go right.” 

“ And of course you thought as Percy thought. Well, 
you have landed yourselves into a very pretty mess; and 
who is going to pull you out, do you think?” 

“ Oh, I have no hope now,” the girl said. Mamma 
has quite made up her mind. It’s all over. And — and I 
am not allowed to speak to him — to her or to any one; and 
— and so I’ll bid you good-bye.” 

She held out her hand. 

“ Good-bye! Are you going away, then?” 

‘‘I don’t know. Mamma will not tell me anything,” 
was the answer. 

So these two parted. But Mrs. Meyer, as she went on 
to the florist’s shop in Notting Hill High Street, and also 
on her way back home, was very much perturbed. She 
was exceedingly fond of both these young people. Her 
common sense was outraged by the spectacle of all this 
mischief arising out of sheer perversity. Then she had a 
married woman’s natural interest in promoting a match — 
as if the mischief already done was not sufiicient. Accord- 
ingly, when her husband came home that afternoon, she 
put the whole case before him. 

‘‘ You had better keep out of it, any way,” was his in- 
stant decision, for he was an unromantic person, who found 
his own affairs quite sufficient for the time at his disposal. 
“ You see what has come of your interference so far. If 
people are determined to quarrel, they will quarrel; and 
they get to like it. ” 

YeS; but tliink of poor Mima/’ said his wife, with 


146 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


pathetic eyes. “ And Percy, too. He is sure to come to 
me. And what can I do?’^ 

‘‘ That is what I say. What can you do? You caiPt do 
anything. There’s no Gretna Green nowadays; you can’t 
lend them a carriage and a couple of outriders, and send 
them flying away to the North. ” 

“I know I am quite helpless, Philip,” his wife con- 
fessed. “ But if you would be good-natured about it, I 
see a way. And I’m sure you’re just as fond of poor 
Mima as I am; and really — really to see her so miserable 
and heart-broken as she was this morning, and to think of 
its all arising from this monstrous folly — ” 

People who go to law don’t call it monstrous folly,” 
Mr. Meyer observed, sententiously. “ They call it obtain- 
ing justice. And they’re generally very much disgusted 
with it when they get it.” 

“ But other people may call it folly. Now, Philip, do 
be good-natured for once, and help me to put all this 
right, ” she pleaded again. 

“ What do you want me to do?” 

‘‘ Well, I see only one way. Mima must get ill, for one 
thing; and frighten her mother out of her bad temper. 
Then I want you to go to Lord Amesleigh and offer to take 
up one of his companies for him — ’ ’ 

‘‘ I never import sentiment into business,” the financier 
said, curtly. 

‘‘ But this once!” his wife said. “ He has always got a 
dozen projects on hand, you say yourself. W^ell, if you 
went to him and offered him your aid, why, he’d just bow 
down before you. And you could be quite frank about it. 
Tell him plainly you were a friend of Mima’s; yes, and of 
Percy, too; and you wanted to see the young people made 
happy; and that the way to bring that about would be for 
him, of his own free will, and without asking any pledge 
from the other side, to block up that detestable window. 
Then leave the rest to me.” 


ROMEO AMO JULIET. 


147 


I don^t want to be mixed up with any of his precious 
schemes/^ Mr. Meyer said, rather peevishly. “ Storage of 
electricity in steamships — manufacture of boracic acid in 
Iceland — a new kind of soda-water bottle! Why is it that 
impecunious noblemen don^t know how to sell the only 
thing they Ve got to sell — that is, their name? If they^’re 
young they should go to America and marry a petroleuse-, 
if they^re old they should recommend a sherry. To-mor- 
row morning IM give Lord Amesleigh £5000 for sitting 
down and writing a letter of six or eight lines saying that 
the Fuente del Maestre sherry^, at thirty shillings a dozen, 
is as fine in quality as any Amontillado he ever tasted, and 
that henceforth he will have nothing else at his own 
table— 

“ And will you do that, Philip ?^^ his wife said, eagerly. 
He stared at her. 

“ Now do I look like the kind of person who wants to 
start a sherry-importing company? Is that your impres- 
sion of the way in which I earn my living?^ ^ 

‘‘ Oh, no, of course not,^-’ she said, hastily; “ but it 
sounded quite practical. And — and I thought it might be 
good enough for Lord Amesleigh. ” 

“ Good enough to forward your dark and nefarious 
plans, you mean,^^ her husband said. “ Well, I will think 
over the matter. Let me see, what am I to bargain for — 
that he should block up the window in the side of his 
house? It isn’t the way we ordinarily do business in the 
City. ‘ My dear lord — I am willing to float your boracic 
acid company on condition that you block up a window.’ 

“But of course you wouldn’t put it that way; you would 
lead up to it,” she said; and then she added, with adroit 
flattery, “ and just think how proud Lord Amesleigh will 
be to have your name on a prospectus. It will give him 
quite a different standing. I am sure he will do anything 
you ask him. ” 

^^Etajpresf’ 


148 


ROMEO AMD JULIET. 


Oh, I must manage Mrs. Laxbourne; and that won^t 
be nearly so easy, I am afraid. 

So matters remained for the meantime; Mrs. Meyer, 
satisfied with having gained his consent, being too prudent 
a woman to press for immediate results. She saw nothing 
further of Mima Laxbourne; she heard nothing further of 
Percy Blount. That young man, indeed, spent most of 
his leisure time in watching a certain window, but, to his 
ever-increased astonishment and chagrin, he watched in 
vain. The telegraphic signals had ceased. Once or twice 
his longing imagination deceived him into thinking that 
the postage-stamp was there; then on going nearer he 
would find the pane a meaningless blank. And how was it 
that he never, by any chance, met Miss Jimmie, or even 
caught a glimpse of her? Had her mother shut her up? 
Or did the young lady see that the coast was clear ere com- 
ing out? Why should she avoid him — why not write a 
single line of comfort? He had sent her a brief note, im- 
ploring her to let him have the smallest message of remem- 
brance, but there was no answer. 

However, if she wished to avoid him, she was caught at 
last. He was going up Bedford Gardens, she was coming 
down Campden Hill Eoad, and at the corner they ran full 
tilt against each other. She looked very frightened, and 
would have passed on; but he caught her by the arm and 
detained her. 

“ Mima, where have you been? Why didnT you answer 
my note?^^ 

‘‘I am not to speak to you, Percy,’" she said; and she 
made some feeble pretense of trying to get away. 

“ But you’ve got to speak to me,” said he boldly. 
“ I’m not going to have any nonsense now, Jimmie. We 
used to joke about playing Borneo and Juliet, while that 
confounded lawsuit was going on; but I don’t mean to 
have it come about in earnest. Not a bit of it. I have as 
much right to you as your mother has — ” 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


149 


“ You have no right to me at all, Percy/ ^ she said, but 
without much force of conviction. 

“ Haven^t I? Yes, I have. You belong to me. I don^t 
care if you had twenty mothers.-’^ 

He had got hold of her hand by this time, and felt 
through the glove that something was missing. 

‘‘ There^s only one ring here,” said he; “ where is the 
other?” 

“I have taken it off, Percy,^ ^ she said, with downcast 
eyes. “I am to send it back to you, with the fan and 
other things. And you must give me the locket again, 
Percy. ” 

“ Oh, indeed; who said so?” 

“ Mamma. At least, she does not know it is a locket; 
but she said I was to get back anything I may have given 
you.” 

‘‘ Well, look here, Jimmie, you^re always good-natured- 
ly hinting to me that I^m not very clever; but at all 
events Pm not such an unmistakable ass as to give you 
back that locket; and you may tell your mamma as much, 
if she is anxious for information.” 

“ You need not speak of mamma in that way, Percy,” 
the young lady said, as in duty bound. ‘‘ I consider your 
father to be quite as much to blame for what has hap- 
pened. 

“ I donH care a brass farthing who is to blame. The 
question is. What is to be done now? Shall I come and see 
your mother and try to pacify her? I'm not a bit afraid." 

“ Oh, no, no, no, Percy; that would make everything 
twenty times worse! I'm not allowed to mention your 
name, or your father's, or anything connected with the 
lawsuit.” She looked up shyly. ‘‘And I shouldn't be 
talking to you now.” 

“But you are talking to me, you see; and that's the 
difference betwixt you and a clam,” he said — whatever he 
meant by it. “ And I wish to impress on your young mind 


150 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


that there is only one person 57ho can release you from the 
promise you made to me, and that is myself; and that I 
don’t in the least mean to do it. Why, Jimmie, where is 
your courage? Your mother may be in a bad temper — ^it 
isn’t the first time. And your talking of sending back 
those little presents, and asking me for mine — why, I never 
heard of such nonsense. ” 

This confident way of talking was no doubt pleasant to 
hear; still she shook her head. 

“ It’s all very well for you, Percy. You are a man; and 
can do and say what you like. But if you were a girl, 
and shut up at home, and not allowed to speak — ” 

‘‘It serves you right,” said he, bluntly. “Why have 
you never put the postage-stamp on the window.” 

“ Because I am forbidden to see you.” 

“ And what are you doing now?” 

“ Oh, but this is an accident. I am not responsible. ” 

“Now listen to me, Jimmie,” said he, “and attend to 
words of wisdom. My father and your mother have chosen 
to go and make fools of themselves; but it would be very 
ill done of us to encourage them in their folly. What you 
have to do is to pay no heed to it whatever. That means, 
whenever you feel miserable or dispirited, you stick that 
postage-stamp on the pane, and come down to the Round 
Pond, and I’ll meet you there and talk you into a common 
sense frame of mind. I tell you I won’t allow our engage- 
ment to be broken off — not a bit of it. Why, what would 
you do? Go in for one of the charitable fads, I suppose — 
join a sisterhood, and take to slumming — or be off to re- 
generate Whitechapel by teaching costermongers to waltz. 
Jimmie, Jimmie, that’s not your line.” 

Just at this moment a victoria came along; and the sole 
occupant of it, a lady, regarded these two with arch eyes. 
The young man instantly whipped off his hat; his com- 
panion, with a little bow of recognition to the lady in the 
carriage, and a hurried “ Good-bye, Percy,” went quickly 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


151 


on her way. But the new-comer, seeing that she had thus 
unwittingly broken in upon their interview, bade her coach- 
man turn and drive back; and in a couple of minutes she 
had overtaken Miss Laxbourne. 

“ Mimal^^ she called. 

The girl stopped, and Mrs. Meyer stepped out of the 
victoria on to the pavement. 

“ I am awfully sorry, said she. “ I didnT mean to be 
a spy on you, Mima, dear. 

“ I assure you^ I assure you, it was quite an accident,^’, 
the girl said, anxiously. “ I had no idea of meeting him."’^ 

But there Mr. Percy Blount put in an appearance. 

“ WhaPs the good of running off like that, Mima?^’ said 
he, for he had hesitated during a second or two as to 
whether he should follow her. 

“ Oh, you go away, Percy,” Mrs. Meyer said, quite good- 
naturedly. “ I want to talk to Mima by herself; I have 
something important to say to her.^^ 

“ I canT go away, Mrs. Meyer,” said he, “ until I have 
some definite assurance from Mima. Why, she is allowing 
her mother to think that our engagement is broken off! 
Did you ever hear anything so absurd as that — all over a 
wretched lawsuit that neither Mima nor I have anything to 
do with?” 

“ But I think I see a way to put everything straight,” 
Mrs. Meyer said. “ At least I hope it will be so. Now 
say good-bye and go away.” 

He could not further disobey; and all he said in going 
was, 

“ Now remember, Jimmie, there is only one person who 
can release you from your promise to me; and you never 
will be released.” 

When he had gone Mrs. Meyer turned to her companion. 

“ Now, Mima,” she said, “ you know I am very fond of 
both Percy and you, and I want to see you happy together; 
and I want to bring all tliis wretched quarreling to an end. 


152 


EOMEO AND JULIET. 


Not only that, but I think I see my way — only I must have 
yOur help. 

The girl looked up inquiringly. 

“ You have got to fall ill.^^ 

She still looked puzzled. 

“Yes, there’s nothing else for it,” Mrs. Meyer con- 
tinued. “ You see, there are two sides to the quarrel. 
Very well. My husband is pretty confident of being able 
to bring Lord Amesleigh to reason. Supposing that Lord 
Amesleigh were to consent to shutting up that window — 
without any bargain or without even any notice — wouldn’t 
that be a great concession?” 

“ It would be a very, very great concession,” Miss Lax- 
bourne said, but rather wistfully, for the possibihty seemed 
far distant. 

“ Supposing, then, that we caii get Lord Amesleigh to 
yield so much, what is to induce your mamma to yield on 
her side? Your falling ill, as I say. You can easily do it 
— enough to make her anxious about you. You are not 
looking very well as it is, Mima, dear; and you can easily 
put on the rest. Take to your bed, pretend you can’t eat; 
a little crying now and again would be effective; and then, 
when your mother is really alarmed about you, I will call 
and bring friendly messages from Lord Amesleigh. Do 
you see?’ 

“ Mamma won’t believe in any more friendly messages,” 
Miss Laxbourne said, shaking her head. 

“Won’t she? Leave that to me. Now do you think 
you can become an interesting invalid, Mima, dear?” 

“ Without being really ill?” 

“Certainly.” 

The girl paused for a second. 

“ It would be no use tiying,” she said, with a hopeless 
air. “ Nothing would be of any use now. I have never 
seen mamma so determined. It’s all very well for Percy 
to make light of it, aiid say that everything must come 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


153 


right and people listen to reason. But there is no reason 
nor argument in the matter. It is silence and a fixed de- 
termination. What you propose would be of no use. 

“ I tell you it would, though — every use in the world, 
her friend said, distinctly. “ Now, do as I bid you; it only 
means a little starvation; and you can read novels all day 
long. I must hurry away now, Mima, for I have some 
people coming this afternoon; but mind you do what I tell 
you, and get very, very ill, indeed. Good-bye, dear.^^ 

Then they went their several ways — Mrs. Meyer nothing 
doubting of the success of her scheme. 

And now Mr. Percy Blount had restored to him the hope 
of finding the postage-stamp on the window-pane; and each 
morning as he went out he glanced up at the front of Mrs. 
Laxbourne’s dwelling. Alas! it was a far different message 
that those windows were destined to convey to him. One 
day he was startled to find that they were all shrouded in 
brown holland. The family had gone away, then? — and 
for a lengthened time? And whither? To what far land 
was poor Jimmie being dragged, without being allowed to 
leave behind her one tearful word of farewell? 


VIL 

^^WELL COUNTERFEITED 

There were three persons in this railway-carriage — Mrs. 
Meyer, her sister-in-law (an elderly maiden lady), and Mr. 
Percy Blount. 

It is so many years since I was at Torquay,^^ Mrs. 
Meyer was saying, ‘‘that I suppose it will be quite altered 
now. Indeed, I donT remember much about it, except the 
terraces on the hill-side, and the villas with the queer 
names, and the beautiful bay. I do remember, though, 
there was an hotel a little bit beyond the town— on a small 
promontory, and overlooking the sea, and with a pretty 


154 


ROMEO AKD JULIET. 


garden; if that is still in existence I think we should go 
there. It is away from the chemists^ shops, you see. I 
donH like the look of so many chemists^ shops in a place. 

Presently she said — 

I hope Mima has been doing what I told her. " 

‘‘ She hasn^t been doing what I told her,^^ Percy Blount 
said. “ I haven^t had a scrap of a message from her, of 
any kind whatever, since they went away. 

“ Because she is a properly conducted young lady,^^ her 
friend said, promptly, “ and gives obedience where it is 
due. You must wait till the law gives you authority over 
her.’^ 

‘‘ The law?’^ said he. “It is the law that has been the 
cause of all this mischief.-’^ 

“ Then wait till the Church gives you authority over 
her.^^ 

“Whatever happens,’’ said he, “it is awfully good of 
you to take so much trouble.” 

“ My dear young man,” said she, coolly, “ a fortnight 
at the sea-side never comes amiss to me, especially at tlus 
time of the year. Then Philip will be down from Friday 
till Monday; and that will do him a world of good— though 
the railway journey is so tedious. Besides, Mima is my 
friend; I am really anxious to see her, for I don’t think 
she is likely to be over happy as matters stand at present.” 

When, in the course of the afternoon, they arrived at 
Torquay, and had succeeded in getting rooms at a pleas- 
antly situated hotel, the two ladies turned Percy Blount 
adrift to shift for himself, and set off in quest of a certain 
villa. They found it without much difficulty, and were 
admitted, the parlor-maid who showed them into the draw- 
ing-room explaining that Mrs. Laxbourne was at the mo- 
ment engaged with her dress-maker, but would come to see 
them shortly. 

Mrs. Meyer went to the window, as one naturally does at 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


155 


the sea-side; the next moment she was calling to her sister- 
in-law. 

“ Come here, Bella, quick! Did you ever see the like of 
this? Look at that young minx!^^ ^ 

Miss Meyer went to the window instantly; and there, in 
the small terraced garden below, she saw Miss Jimmie, 
whom she knew very well, being slowly wheeled along in a 
Bath chair, in the warm evening light. 

‘‘ She is doing it thoroughly,^’ Mrs. Meyer said, with a 
laugh. “ The artful hussy! She really looks quite thin. 
I wonder if she starves herself, too?” 

“ She looks very ill,” said Miss Meyer, gravely. 

“ Yes, of course she does. She was told to look ill. But 
just wait a moment, and I’ll show you what kind of an in- 
valid she is — if there’s time before the mamma comes. ” 

She tapped on the window. Miss Laxbourne looked up; 
then said something to the old man who was drawing the 
Bath chair; and then they made in for the house. 

‘‘I wish she would look sharp,” said Mrs. Meyer, as 
there seemed to be a little delay in her making her appear- 
ance, or her mamma will be here.” 

That instant the door opened, and the invalid appeared. 
She looked very pale and wan and fragile; and she was 
assisted across the room to the sofa by the old man and the 
parlor-maid, one on each side. Miss Jimmie held out her 
hand in rather a feeble fashion; and Mrs. Meyer took it 
and held it, as in duty bound; but the truth was that she 
had been startled, and was inclined to be angry. 

‘‘ Mima,” said she, reproachfully, as soon as these two 
had gone, ‘‘you needn’t overdo it. Eemember, you are 
only pretending illness. I declare you quite frightened 
me!” 

For answer the round blue eyes grew moist with tears. 

“ I have not been quite so strong lately, dear Mrs. 
Meyer,” she said in a voice that was excellently well coun- 
terfeited, so like an invalid’s it was. 


15 () ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Mima, you’re not really ill!’’ Mrs. Meyer exclaimed in 
great alarm. She caught both the girl’s hands in hers, and 
looked earnestly into her eyes. 

‘‘I have not been quite so well,” was the timid ad- 
mission. 

“ Oh, this is dreadful!” her friend cried. “ But never 
mind: it will be all right. I have come to put it all right 
— and Percy is with me — ” 

What did you say?” the girl asked quickly, and her 
eyes seemed half frightened. 

“ Only that Percy has come with me, Mima dear — oh, 
yes, he is in this town — now — at thi^ very minute — ” _ 

Paler Miss Jimmie could not become; but the effect of 
this sudden announcement was to rob her of her little re- 
maining strength; and she sunk back helplessly on the sofa, 
her head falling to one side. Evidently, this was no pre- 
tense. She was on the verge of a fainting fit. 

“ Bella, some water, quick!” 

There was a jug of flowers on the table. Miss Meyer 
whipped out the flowers, dipped her handkerchief in the 
water, and hastened to the sofa. They were thus engaged 
in restoring the girl to consciousness when her mother en- 
tered — radiant, self-confident, and profuse with apologies 
for having kept them waiting such an unconscionable time. 

‘‘ I had no idea Mima was so poorly,” Mrs. Meyer said, 
when the girl was at length sitting up again, What is 
the matter?” 

‘‘There is nothing at all the matter,” her mother an- 
swered, “ except that she won’t interest herself in any- 
thing. I really think she has just allowed herself to drift 
into this state through not caring. It is very absurd, of 
course— a girl to be so weak and listless without having 
anything the matter with her at all. But I dare say she 
has found this place dull. As soon as she gets a little bet- 
ter we shall go somewhere else, probably to the Continent, 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


157 


Vienna always seemed to me the most cheerful town to 
live in of any I know. 

‘‘ Why not try London?'^ Mrs. Meyer suggested. 

Mrs. Laxbourne froze instantly. 

“ We have no intention of returning to London at pres- 
ent/^ she said. 

^‘You would find some little alteration at Campden 
Hill/^ Mrs. Meyer ventured to say. And then, grown 
bolder, she continued, “ It is for poor Mima^s sake, my 
dear Mrs. Laxbourne, that I am anxious to talk to you 
about that — that unhappy lawsuit — ” 

‘‘ I would rather hear nothing further about it, if you 
please, the widow said, stiffly. 

Yes; but for Mima^s sake you will listen, won^t you?^’ 
the mediator pleaded. 

‘‘ I don^t see how Mima has anything whatever to do 
with it,^^ was the unpromising answer. 

“ Well,^"' said Mrs. Meyer, with a little hesitation, ‘‘ I — 
I don'^t suppose it can be pleasant for her to know that the 
two families have quarreled, and that she has been taken 
away and not allowed to communicate with Percy. But let 
me tell you what has happened, Mrs. Laxbourne. Lord 
Amesleigh has behaved in the most handsome manner. If 
it is any gratification to you to know, you are left complete 
victor. Of course you were already aware that he had all 
the costs to pay — and heavy costs, too.. Besides that, you 
were left free to build the greenhouse, if you wished. But 
now do you know what he has done? Of his own free will 
he has gone and built up the window in the side of his 
house; and I think I have the right to ask you if that is 
not a handsome act, and a frank offer of conciliation?” 

Mrs. Meyer wore a triumphant air, and no wonder, for 
it was with a good deal of difficulty that she had induced 
her husband to intermeddle in any way whatever with Lord 
Amesleigh ^s affairs. But Mrs. Laxbourne was suspicious. 

They may have told you so— 


158 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


“ My dear Mrs. Laxbourne, I saw it!^^ the other inter- 
posed. ‘‘ I give you my word of honor that the window is 
actually built up — I saw it with my own eyes!^^ 

‘‘ And you have come to ask me to do something in re- 
turn?^ ^ the widow asked, still distrustful. 

“No, I have no commission of the kind. As I say, this 
has been done by Lord Amesleigh of his own free will, and 
there is no condition attached. But if you ask me to name 
something I can, and it is a request of a very simple char- 
acter. Mrs. Laxbourne, will you and Mima come and dine 
with us at our hotel this evening — Percy will be there 
She was sitting on the sofa beside Miss Jimmie, holding 
a poor, thin, wasted hand in hers. 

“ LookJ^ said she, “ won^t that plead with you?^^ 

After a moment^s hesitation, the widow said, 

“ Oh, well, I have no objection to meeting Mr; Blount; 
of course he will apologize for the foolish stories he told — 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly! I know he is most anxious to 
do so,^^ Mrs. Meyer exclaimed, although, as a matter of 
fact, Mr. Percy Blount had never offered to do anything of 
the kind — not seeing his way to the opportunity. 

“ But I am afraid Mima canH go out to dinner, con- 
tinued the widow, who appeared to be greatly mollified by 
this news of her having been left completely mistress of 
the field. “Won’t you come and dine with us:” 

“ To-night?” 

“ Yes, if it is convenient. ” 

“ And bring Percy?” 

“ Yes, if he won’t mind so unceremonious an invitation.” 
“ I think I can answer for that,” said Mrs. Meyer. 

They remained a httle while longer, and then they left; 
and they had not gone very far when they encountered Mr. 
Blount, who had been prospecting around. 

“ Now, my dear Percy,” said the young matron, in her 
business-like way, “ I am going to show you the advantages 
of speaking the truth. You tried to patch up this affair by 


ROMEO AE'D JULIET. 


159 


telling a lot of lies, as I understand it, and the result was 
to make the quarrel worse confounded than ever. I inter- 
fere, and tell the simple truth. What is the consequence? 
Why, that you are invited to dine with Mrs. Laxbourne 
and Mima this very evening 

“ You don^t mean that!^^ he said. 

“ This very evening as ever was. Seven forty-five; and 
they were so considerate as to say you neednT mind about 
evening dress — especially if you hadnT any with you. 

“ But how did you manage it?^’ he exclaimed. 

‘‘ The truth — the simple truth — works wonders,^' she 
said, oracularly. “ Then I have been a little longer in the 
world than you, though not much. 

Furthermore, she had to caution him not to show any 
surprise or alarm when he should find Miss Jimmie looking 
sadly thin and white. 

“ If I werenT quite sure of the cause, I should be really 
anxious about her,^^ Mrs. Meyer continued. “ But I know 
what it is well enough — absence and heart-ache. Poor 
thing, when I told her to go away and get ill I had no idea 
it was about to happen in earnest. But I will never give 
any girl that advice again. The fright I got when I saw 
her just now! However, it is for you, Mr. Percy, to bring 
back the roses to her cheeks. I have done all I could for 
the pair of you.^^ 

“ And you donT think we are ungrateful, Mrs. Meyer ?^^ 
said he, speaking quite naturally for both Mima and him- 
self. 

That evening, when the invited guests went to the house. 
Miss Jimmie looked much less like an invalid, for 

“ Rosy-red grew she wlien Glenogie sate down;” 

and even thereafter, when her natural pallor had again as- 
serted itself, there was still the little excitement arising 
from this unwonted festivity; and obvious to all was the 
subdued, pleased light in the pretty blue eyes. Mr. Percy 


160 


ROMEO AMD JULIET. 


got through the apologies which Mrs. Meyer had directed 
him to make with sufficient cleverness; the widow was 
quite gracious, in her grand fashion; and nothing was said 
about the Court of Appeal, or the senile imbecility of En- 
glish judges. 

During the course of the evening, however, Mrs. Meyer 
took occasion to have a little private talk with Mrs. Lax- 
bourne. 

“ Now won^t you be generous? said the diplomatist. 
“ You have had everything your own way, in court and out 
of it. I want you to yield one point. Won’t you give up 
yotir idea of building an additional greenhouse?” 

But instantly the widow drew back, and regarded her 
visitor with watchful eyes. 

‘‘ Was Lord Amesleigh told I would do that'bef ore he 
blocked up the window?” she asked. 

“ Indeed he was not!” Mrs. Meyer answered, honestly 
enough. ‘‘ I can positively assure you of that. He doesn’t 
expect you to do anything whatever — not anything what- 
ever; but seeing that you have got everything your own 
way, I think you might afford to be generous. For Mima’s 
sake,” Mrs. Meyer added. 

“ I never was so very anxious to have that greenhouse,” 
Mrs. Laxbourne confessed, after a second. 

‘‘ And you will promise to think no more about it — yes, 
now, you must, Mrs. Laxbourne — for Mima’s sake?” 

“Very well, I do make the promise,” she said, good- 
naturedly. 

“ That’s all right, then. And you will find that Lord 
Amesleigh will not be slow to acknowledge that you have 
acted very handsomely and generously in the matter. I 
am quite sure of that. Little courtesies of that kind are so 
much appreciated when they come unsolicited — just as he 
has built up that window without even telling you he was 
going to do it, or asking you to regard it as a favor. I am 
sure he will highly appreciate your saying that you won’t 


KOMEO AND JULIET. 


161 


build the greenhouse; and surely, for poor Mima’s sake — 
look at her, how pleased and happy she seems! — for her 
sake it is better you should all be friends. Then as to 
Vienna,” continued this insidious person, “do you think 
it is such a very healthy city. Not very healthy, is it? My 
recollection of it is that the smaller river — what’s its name? 
— ^is pretty much of a ditch.” 

“ I like the driving in the Prater,” said Mrs. Laxbourne, 
but with no great conviction. “ And the music of the 
military bands is really beautiful.” 

“ Yes, that is so, perhaps, ’’responded Mrs. Meyer, rather 
absently. “Of course, you couldn’t expect to have 'as 
many friends there as in London. And Mima seems to 
want rousing up a little, doesn’t she? I do think your 
house is so conveniently situated — ^one never hears people 
grumbling about the distance — and then it is so prettily 
situated, and the neighborhood so cheerful. Don’t you 
think Mima would rather be in her own comfortable home, 
and seeing people a little?” 

“ Yes, perhaps,” Mrs. Laxbourne admitted. “ I only 
mentioned Vienna by — by 9-ccident, as it were.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Laxbourne, suppose you and Mima go back 
with us! Do! Take her to her own pretty home, and 
make it cheerful for her; and ask her friends to come and 
see her. Wouldn’t that be wise? Look at her this min- 
ute; why, she is quite a different creature from the white- 
faced thing we saw this afternoon.” 

Mrs. Laxbourne did not yield all at once, but in the end 
she did yield completely; and so what was dangerously nigh 
becoming a tragedy was changed into comedy by the artifices 
and contrivancs of this wily woman. 

The Laxbournes returned to London; a formal peace 
was concluded between the two families; the engagement 
of the young people was openly recognized; and Miss Jim- 
mie throve and prospered in the sunshine of her new hap- 
piness, until she showed herself as healthy a lass as any you 


162 


BOMEO AISTD JULIET. 


can find at this moment in the neighborhood of Campden 
Hill. Onlj;, as Mrs. Meyer sometimes says to her. 

Things have turned out very nicely, you know, my 
dear; and weTe all coming to the wedding; and youfil look 
as pretty as pretty can be. But donT forget that you gave 
me a fright. When I told you to go away and pretend to 
be an invalid, I had no idea you would do your counterfeit-^ 
ing just a little too well. 


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224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

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226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

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228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

ci 0> 

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ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

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238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

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240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

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242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever. .... 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ Cherry ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

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247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

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248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 


249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

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250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
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252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita ” . . 10 

253 The Amazon. By CarlVosmaer 10 
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■ False. By the author of 
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255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. ; 20 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

By L. B. Walford 20 


(4) 


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257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
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268 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
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Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 
^1 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 
^2 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddou 20 

264 Pi6douche, A French Detective. 

By Forrun6 Du Boisgobey — 10 

265 Judith Sliakespeare; Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 30 

266 The Water-Babies. AFa?iryTale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 


267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

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McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser’s Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Clioice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh jMiller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part J. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The IJttle Savage. By Captain 

Marry at ■ 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 


277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison . 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 


den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

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283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

284 Doris. By ” The Duchess ” .10 

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^5 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 Frojn Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a ‘‘ Brutal 


Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. Bj' the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... lU 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Tliorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. J3y the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 lugledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. B3’ the author of “ Dora 
Thorne’’ 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

moi e Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 30 


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317 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

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318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

32-3 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In liuck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

825 The Portent. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for 3Ien and AVomen. By 
George IMacdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

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329 The Polish Jew. B}’Erckmann- 


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330 May Blossom ; or. Between Two 

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331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith W^ynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel. ... 20 

336 Philistia. B}^ Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
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338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

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339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

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342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess” 10 

343 The Talk of the Town. By 

.James Payn 20 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

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Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 

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702 Man and Wife, By Wilkie Col- 

lins. Second half 

703 A House Divided Against Itself. 

By Mrs. Oliphant 

704 Prince Otto, R. L. Stevenson. 

705 The AVoman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
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706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

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707 Silas Marner. The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 

709 Zenobia ; or, (Jie Fall of Palmyra 

By William Ware. 1st half . . 

709 Zenobia; or, the Fall of Palmyra 

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710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 

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711 A Cardinal Sin. Hugh Conway 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. Grant Allen 20 

713 “Cherry Ripe!” By Helen B. 

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714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

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715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

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716 Victor and Vanquished, By 

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717 Beau Tancrede; or. The Alar- 

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718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

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720 Paul Clifford, By SirE. Bulwer 

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721 Dolores, By Mrs. Forrester 20 

722 What’s Mine's Mine. By George 

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723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

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724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

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725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

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726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. . 20 

727 FairAVomen. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

728 Janet's Repentance, By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Mignon. Mrs. Forrester 20 

03) 


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762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

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763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 

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764 The Evil Genius. By Wilkie 

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765 Not W'isely, But Too Well. By 

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766 No. XITI ; or, the Story of the 

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767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton .. . 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

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771 A Mental Struggle. By “ The 

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782 The Closed Door. By F. Du 

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797 Look Before You Leap. By 

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818 Pluck. By Jolm Strange Winter 10 

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820 Doris's Fortune. By Florence 

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822 A Passion Flower. A Novel 20 

823 The Heir of the Ages. By James 

Payn — 20 

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826 Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 
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828 The Prettiest Woman in War- 

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852 Under Five Lakes ; or. The 

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863 A True Magdalen. By Char- 
lotte M Braeme, author of 
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854 A Woman’s Error. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
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855 The Dynamiter. Robert Louis 

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Grif c Stevenson 20 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. Mary E. Bryan. 
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857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. Mary E. Bryan. 
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858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. B.y Vernon Lee. The 
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860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

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861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

862 Ugl.y Barrington. By “ 'I'he 

Duchess.” Betty’s Visions. 

By Rhoda Broughton 10 

863 “ My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

865 Written in Fire. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

866 Miss Harrinrton’s Husband. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

867 The Girls of Feversham. B.y 

Florence Marryat 20 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marrvat 20 

869 The Poison of Asps. By Flor- 

ence Man-yat 10 

870 Out of His Reckoning. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

871 A Bachelor's Blunder. By W. 

E. Norris 20 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 

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873 A Harvest of Wild Oats. By 

Florence Marrj-at 20 

874 A House Parly. B\- “Ouida” 10 

875 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. By 

“ The Duchess ” 20 

876 Mi srnon’s Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 

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878 Little Tu’pehny. By S Baring- 

Gould 10 


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882 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. For- 

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885 Les Miserables. 

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“ ifl c*i I I/. ••••••••••••■ t J.V/ 

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871 A Bachelor’s Blunder. By W. 

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872 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 

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876 Mignou’s Secret. John Strange 

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877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 

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879 The Touchstone of Peril. By 

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880 The Son of His Father. By Mrs. 

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881 Mohawks. By Miss AI. E. Brad- 

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886 Paston Carew, Alillionaire and 

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887 A Modern Telemachus. By 

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889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

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890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

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891 VeraNevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance. By Airs. H. Lovett 
Cameron 20 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 

Victory. Robert Buchanan . 10 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

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893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

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894 Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

895 A Star and a Heart. By Flor- 

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896 The Guilty River. By Wilkie 

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898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia 
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OTHMAR. 

By “OUIDA.” 

Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, No. 639, 

PK1€E 30 €JEr«TS. 


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P.O.Box 3751. 17 to 37' Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


BEAST— Beautifally Bound in Cloth— FBICE 50 CENTS 


A NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION 

OF THAT MOST DELIGHTFUL OF CHILDREN’S STORIES, 

Alice’s AdYcntires in Wonderland. 

By LEWIS CARROLL, 

Author of ** Through the Looking-Glass/* etc. 

With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John Tenniel 

The most delicious and taking nonsense for children ever written. A 
book to be read by all mothers to their little ones. It makes them danc« 
with delight. Everybody enjoys the fnn of this charming writer for th« 
nursery 

THIS NE'W PEOPLE’S EDITION, BOUND IN CLOTH, PRICE oO CENl\i 
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ffi o* Box S'***- A7 to 37 Va0«lewBter S^ireet. New * urf* 


MUNRO'S PUBLICATION’S. 


The Philosophy of Whist. 

AN ESSAY ON THE SCIENTIFIC AND INTELLECTUAL 
ASPECTS OF THE MODERN GAME. 


IN TWO PARTS. 

Part I.— THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PLAY. 

Part II. -THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PROBABILITIEa 

By WILLIAM POLE, 

Mus. Doc. OxoN, 

Fellow op the Royal Societies of Loxdon and Edinbwroh; 

One op the Examiners in the University op London; 

Knight op the Japanese Imperial Order op the Rising Sun. 

Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 669. 


PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

20 CENTS. 


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Munro’s Dialopes and Speakers. 


PRICE 10 CENTS EACH. 


These books embrace a series of Dialogues and Speeches, all new and 
original, and are just what is neede<i to give spice and merriment to Social 
Parties, Home Entertainments. Debating Societies, School Recitations, Ama- 
teur Theatricals, etc. 'fhey contain Irish, German, Negro, Yankee, and, in 
fact, all kinds of Dialogues and Speeches. The following are the titles of the 
books : 

No. 1. The Fimiij’ Fellow’s Dialogues. 

No. 2. The Cleiiieiiee mid Donkey Dialogues. 

No. 3. 3lr8. Smith’s Hoarders’ Dialogues. 

No. 4. Schoolboys’ Comic Dialogues. 


No. 1. Vot I Know ’Hoiit Gruel Societies Speaker. 

No. 2. The .loiiii H. Go-ofl'Comic Speaker. 

No. 3. My Boy Vilhelm’s Speaker. 


The above titles express, in a slight degree, the contents of the hooks, 
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OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 


A Series oi the Most Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Puhilshed 


NO. PRICE 

1 Old Sleuth the Detective 10c 

2 Tlie King of the Detect! v(\s 10c 

8 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Fird half. 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Second half lOc 

4 Under a' Million Disguises 10c 

5 Niu'ht Scenes in JS’e v i'ork 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning Detective 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. First half 10c 

7 1'he Shadow Detective. Second half 10c 

8 Ued-Light Will, the River Detective 10c 

0 Iron Burge.ss, the Government Detective 10c 

10 Tlie Brigands of New York 10c 

11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist 10c 

12 Tlie Twin Detectives 10c 

13 The French Detective 10c 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis Detective 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Irish Detective 10c 

17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective 10c 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York iOc 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective lOc 

22 Night-Hawk, the Mounted Detective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseries of New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of New Y^ork Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick Detective 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady Detective 10c 

29 Monsieur Armand ; or. The French Detective in New 

York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. First half 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. Second half 10c 

31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France, First half 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. Second halj 10c 

33 The American Detective in Russia 10c 

34 The Dutch Detective lOo 


The Publisher will send any of the above works by mail^ 
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, 10 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater St. and 45 to 53 Rose St,, New York. 


P. O. Box 8761. 


MUITRO^S PUBLICATIONS. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 

By -the duchess.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 
Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 733. 


PRICJE 30 CEWTS 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3761. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


SEASibE LIBRARY- (POCKET EDITION), NO. 745. 

F0;R: ANOTHER’S SIN; 

A’STgUGGLE FOR LOVE. 

By CHARLOTTE M. BBAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thome.'" 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 


PRICE 30 CEI\TS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
r. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONa 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Mnnro’s PnMishins Honse. 


The following: works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition 
ere for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will plea«¥ 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

80 Her Dearest Foe 20 

86 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

870 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1281 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt IG 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORK& 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton o., . 10 

KUmeny. . 3^^ 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 


651 The Yellow Mask Ih 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

<J54 Poor Miss Pinch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The BLck Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I S^y No” 20 


J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer. .' 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals. 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “ Afloat and Ashore”)...., 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


20 The Old Curiosity Shop. 20 

100 A. Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times. ,,,,, tP 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary EdiUon. 


118 Great Expectations 30 

187 David Copperfield 20 

^0 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

Barnaby Budge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) .... 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth. 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

808 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

. 359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs, Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction • 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

621 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne - . . 20 

921 At War with Herself JO 


1"HE 83 ASIDE lADMAiiiT. - rf% 


tiQl 'i'he Sin of a Lifetime . . - » . . . SS5 

iC^iS Lady Gwendoline's Dream , , o » - , < . M 

i^ib Wife m ^aroe Only. 0 c = - o*,.. o/. M 

i044 Like Ko Otner Love ».<>.. - = 10 

1060 A Woman's War. c c - c « o <i. , 1€ 

Ji072 Hilary’s Folly o,,, o ...» .o c , U 

1074 A Queen Amongst WomosL, , o » . . e .■ . , <> e, ^ , oc o « .<, o o » 10 
1077 A Gilded Sin... o .. o o . .o c, c . .c oo r . e-. - r . ^ IS 

1081 A Bridge of Love. c, . = ,... o.., oo oc r, o» oo . v. 10 

1086 The Fatal Lilies. ...... .... .... .c. oc » * c .. o ... . 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted » . 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea. c c, .. 10 

1110 A Eose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin. ......... r o . oo ^ o CO = « ^ . o - 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love o.. ....... c . 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring. ...o, c . . 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare c . 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure .... .............. C.., . 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight. . 20 


1209 Hilda ...c... 

1218 A Golden Heart 

1266 Ingledew House 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring. ................. 

1305 Love For a Day ; or, Under the Liiacs. ..... . 

1357 Tne Wife’s Secret . 

1393 1 wo Kisses 

1460 Between Two Sins. ....................... 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil. . 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 

1761 Thorns and Orange Blossoms ............. 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress of Ame . . . , 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 

1906 In Cupid’s Net 


20 

............ 10 

............. 20 

< .nci*........ 10 

...........oc 10 

............. 10 

oaaBje.S... i.0 

• ooojj...... 20 

o%. odoooor CSC 2b 

...."OOCCOO.- 2C 

■ O'- 20 

10 

04 ' 26 

.00 000.0 10 


ALEXANDER DUMAS' WOKSH 


144 Tne Twin Li.jutenant6. . , . K 

131 The Russian Gipsy. , 10 
155 The Count of Monte Criato^ m (/m . 20 

160 The Black Tulip ..... 

The Queen's Necklace. O' ...c r . # 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


172 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge 20 

184 The Countess de Charny 20 

188 Nanon 10 

193 Joseph Balsarao; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

194 The Conspirators lO 

198 Isabel of Bavaria - 10 

201 Catherine Blum 10 

223 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small t3''pe) 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or, Tlie Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

276 The Page of the Duke of Savo}’- 10 

278 Six Years Later; or. Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 20 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne(lst Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1452 Salvator; Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 20 

1462 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. IT 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris,” Vol. Ill 20 


l'/ 




✓ 

✓ 




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I 






THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 35 Cents Per Copy : $3.00 Per Year. 

All yearly subscribers on our list on the first of December will be 
entitled to a beautiful chromo, entitled: 

“ HAPPY AS A KING.” 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It 
contains everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. 
The fashions in dress which it publishes are new and reliable. Par- 
ticular attention is devoted to fashions for children of all ages. Its 
plates and descriptions will assist every lady in the preparation of 
her wardrobe/ both in making new dresses and remodeling old ones. 
The fashions are derived from the best houses and are always prac- 
tical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make 
her own dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are 
carefully cut to measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the 
garment. They are useful in altering old as well as in making new 
clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of 
the magazine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, 
and new patterns given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home 
information, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes 
for cooking have each' a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, The Duch- 
ess,” author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 
and Mary E. Bryan. 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the 
best that can be had. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 TO 27 Yandewater Street, N. Y. 


THE CELEBRATED 



GRAND, SQUAEE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi- 
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solely due to the 
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They are used 
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The SOHMER 
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ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER &; CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


THE 


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IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRABLE PORTIONS OP 

ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOTA, DAKOTA 
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R. S. Hair, Ceneral Passenger Agent, CHICAGO, ILL. 







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